


Not Broken, Just Bent

by shadowscribe



Series: Drown Me In Love [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Anal Fingering, Angst, Cave sex, Cullen is BAMF, Cullen is a mother hen, Depression, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Multi, Multiple Pov, Oral Sex, PTSD, Protective Cullen, Puppy pile, Romance, So much angst, Solas is also BAMF, This started out as porn with plot, Vaginal Sex, i don't know what happened, mostly canon compliant, other relationships in the background, snuggly Inquisitor, so much misunderstanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowscribe/pseuds/shadowscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If three days ago you had told Catheryn Treveylan that she would be standing in the prison of Val Royeux, staring through the bars at Gordon Blackwall – who really isn’t Gordon Blackwall at all, but a man named Thom Rainier – she wouldn’t have believed you. She would have called you insane and had you thrown out. Blackwall is one of the most honorable men she’s ever known. She loves him. She knows exactly who he is.<br/>Or she thought she had.<br/>-----<br/>AKA - That Time That Blackwall Really Fucked Up and Changed Everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Because of Course There Are Darkspawn

 The fall of rain is relentless. Surely it must stop _some time_ and allow the sun to come out and shine down upon the drenched landscape. Surely, because how else could everything grow so well? Here where the ground is little more than rock, rock, and more rock greenery still flourishes – a veritable bounty of spindleweed, blood lotus, and elfroot rising among the lush expanse of grasses and towering trees. Plants need sunlight to grow so of course the sun must shine, if only occasionally. It must.

Catheryn, though, has never seen it. Not even once in the many weeks – _months_ – of her life that she has spent hiking the expanse of this coast.  It is never anything but a never ending outpouring from the heavens, perpetually stuck between a drizzle and a downpour. Between the skies and the restless, heaving seas against stark cliff faces it is a beautiful place, if a bit dismal. A place full of unyielding strength softened with shadows and life.  So much like the man she has journeyed here with.

Blackwall is standing a little ways away, closer to the cliff edge, head and shoulders bent beneath the rain. In his hand is the Warden-Constable’s badge, recently unearthed from several years’ growth of moss and grass. It had been larger than she expected, covering nearly the entire span of her hand. She’d cradled it between her palms for just a moment, wiping its oddly rust free surface clear of dirt with her thumbs before handing it to him. He stares at it now, completely lost in whatever memories its surface holds. Judging by the string of emotions chasing across his handsome features, each one as gray as the sky above them, they are not happy ones.

“This was my life before I met you,” he remarks quietly as she comes to stand beside him. “Crumbling ruins, endless battles…” Blackwall’s voice, normally deep and vibrating – something between a growl and a purr – breaks.

Concerned, she lays a hand on his arm and he shivers beneath her touch, though from the chill in the air or something else she doesn’t know. That he wants her, desires her, cares for her – of that she has no doubt. But he is always hot and then cold with her, kissing her like he means to take her where they stand and then, in the next breath, pushing her away. It’s exhausting and she should just give up. He wants her to, sometimes at least. But she can’t. Not when every touch of his hand makes her heart skip a beat, when the mere rumble of his voice steals her breath and every glance at his face – or form – makes her knees turn to liquid. She can’t leave him. She can’t ignore her feelings for him.

“…Death,” he finishes quietly, staring back at what had once been a watchtower and was now nothing more than a handful of crumbling, moss covered stones half stacked against each other.

“You don’t have to face those things alone,” Catheryn reminds him gently, squeezing his forearm.

His gaze turns to her, the soft blue-green of his eyes latching on to her face as he laughs softly. “Nothing frightens you, does it?” He is amused, his eyes full of wonder as he cups her cheek his hand. Catheryn sighs and turns into the warmth of his caress as he draws his thumb across her lower lip, an action that sends lightning sparking across her skin.  She wants him to kiss her. She _needs_ him to kiss her.

So of course he doesn’t.

“That’s not true,” she tells him in all seriousness. “I’m hunting an insane would-be god who is bent on destroying the world. I’d be crazy if I wasn’t afraid.” She covers his hand with her own and lets her eyes flutter shut. Because this is the truth: she _is_ terrified. Terrified that she will fail. Terrified that what she saw in future Redcliff will come to pass. Terrified of everything that could go wrong. Somehow she, Catheryn Trevelyan – formally of Ostwick Circle, has become responsible for the entire world. Maker have mercy on them all. “But I have the Inquisition,” she continues after a pause. “I have my friends.” Her eyes flutter open, instinctively seeking his. Catheryn needs him to know, to _understand_. “I have _you_ ,” she murmurs fiercely, tightening her grip.

Something darkens his face for a moment, something indescribable. “Yes,” he finally whispers, his voice catching, hitching with scarce hidden emotion. “You do.”

And then, thank the Maker, he kisses her.

* * *

 

 

They are halfway down a narrow ravine when Catheryn stops him with a touch of her hand.

The unexpected caress to the back of his head startles him and Blackwall turns to face her, bracing his feet against the sides of the steep channel to avoid tumbling down the cliff with the sudden movement. “What is it?” he asks quietly, catching sight of her face. She is focused, staring off into the distance like hunting hound with a scent. Reflexively, he curls his hand around the pommel of his sword. He knows that look. He’s seen it more times than he can count. The blinding intensity that overtakes her, the devastating focus as she slips her power from its leash.

Trouble. It means trouble.

And she is so fucking gorgeous.

“Can’t you feel it?” she mouths against his ear, her dark brown eyes unblinking. He can’t. All he can feel is the hum of her magic against his skin and the heat of her presence, his own body angling towards her like a plant to the sun. “Darkspawn,” she breathes, the rush of warm air making parts of him twitch in interest even as he feels his back go ramrod straight, muscles coiling in response to the threat. “Close. I can practically taste them.”

“Of course there’d be darkspawn,” he growls, loosening his sword in its scabbard. Every single fucking time. They’d even spent a week crawling into every dark cave and blighted crevice they could find, killing off darkspawn and sealing up the holes they were climbing out of.

“The Deep Roads run so close to the surface here,” Catheryn murmurs. “I should have Josephine send to Ozammar and see if things are alright. If this many are making it to the surface they may be in trouble.”

Blackwall shakes his head. Here they are, just the two of them, practically standing on top of darkspawn and she worries about potential _allies_. Maker, this woman. She’s magnificent. Crazy, but magnificent. “Let’s see if we can get a better look,” he whispers and she nods in agreement.

They creep down the hill in practiced silence, easing from the ravine and taking cover behind something that had once been a large pillar and was now little more than a cylinder of battered, jagged rock blocking their path. “I’ll look,” Catheryn tells him before he can speak. “I’m smaller. And quicker.” She smirks at him a little and he resists the urge to pull her into another kiss, to chase the quick peek of her tongue between her lips with his own.

 _Darkspawn_ , he reminds himself sternly as he takes a deep breath. _You can think with your other head later._

Catheryn wiggles her way into a small crevice, hoisting herself up so that she can peer over the top of the fallen pillar. Blackwall swallows. He’s not a good man. He’s not even a nice one. He knows that, despite how much he tries to the contrary. But this? Ogling the Herald of Andraste’s ass while she’s doing her job?  This might be one of the worst things he’s ever done. Morally speaking. It doesn’t quite hit the top ten but it’s getting there.

“Alright,” she whispers, shimmying back down the rock until she lands softly beside him. He reaches out, catching her around the waist to help steady her even though he knows she doesn’t need his assistance. He can’t help himself. Even if she is covered by the thick leather of her coat, hiding the tantalizing sweep of her waist and hips beneath the armor that helps keep her safe. “There are five of them that I can see. Hurlocks. No emissaries but there _is_ an alpha.” His lip curls up in a soundless snarl and he doesn’t need to look to know that his hatred is mirrored in her features. She would have made a fabulous Warden.

But then she might have been on the opposite side of things at Adamant. His stomach clenches at the thought, the horror nearly stopping his heart.

“Can we go around them?” Five darkspawn between the two of them was doable but likely dicey. Especially with an alpha in the mix. And Maker forbid any more crawl out of whatever hole they’d come out of.

She shakes her head, regretfully. “Not really, no. I mean, we _can_ ,” she corrects herself, “but to go around them and get back to camp would take at least a day.”

“And by then there would be a whole lot more than five.” He swears under his breath.  “Take another look. If we’re going to do this I need to know their general locations.”

Catheryn raises an eyebrow. “Of course,” she replies archly. “I wouldn’t send you into battle blind, Blackwall. I’m far too invested in your wellbeing for that.” Her eyes flicker down to his lips, lingering there meaningfully.

He swallows. Hard.

It seems that he’s not the only one having immoral thoughts at an inappropriate moment.

Maker help him.

“Try and find where they’re coming from,” he adds, his lips brushing against her cheek as she turns into his words.

“Of course,” she repeats, smirking. Purposefully, he doesn’t look as she wiggles back up to get a second look, staring pointedly at the ground until she drops back down beside him. “Okay, so this is us.” She finds a stick and starts drawing in the damp, shallow pack of earth covering the ground. “This is the curve of the larger ravine and the hurlocks are here, here, here, and here.” She marks the ground in four spots with a slash. “It _looks_ like they may have come up from the Deep Roads _here_ ,” another point, just beyond the loose line being held by the lower ranking darkspawn. “It looks like a crevice was cleared in a recent mudslide.”

He grunts. Recent indeed. They’d just been through this same ravine a handful of hours earlier and there had been nothing. “And the alpha?” he asks.

“Sonofabitch is right here,” a large, angry mark next to noted crevice. “He’s got a maul that’s probably bigger than I am,” she notes, meeting his gaze. He nods, already wincing.

Maker, this is probably going to hurt.

“I’ll hit them first,” she continues, “fire and lightning and then I’ll try to stick to things that won’t kill you in your armor. I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep a barrier around you the entire time.” She glares at the marks in the mud, clearly displeased at this admittance of weakness.

“But you’ll be able to keep one around yourself?” he asks, worried. If she can’t then they aren’t doing this. He doesn’t care if the whole fucking deep roads explodes an entire army of darkspawn onto the coast. He won’t risk her like that. No way, no-fucking-how.

“Yes,” she dismisses her concern with a wave of her hand and he snorts. _Afraid_ , she’d called herself not more than an hour earlier, but here she was preparing to take on darkspawn like it is nothing.

“If you see a chance, close the crevice. We can’t have any more of the bastards climbing out on top of us.” He flexes his shoulders as he slides his shield from his back and settles it on his arm. She has her staff out already, the polished wood and stone a dark sheen beneath the clutch of her fingers.

“Agreed.”

“And my lady,” he stops her with a gentle touch, staring down into eyes so dark brown they appear nearly black, their beautiful rich color nearly lost against the inkiness of her pupils with only the thin band of gold separating the two colors calling attention to their differences. They’d rendered him speechless the first time he’d seen them up close, staring at him with the intensity she’d just shown the darkspawn. She could have been an archdemon and it wouldn’t have mattered. He would have followed her anywhere. He still would. “Be careful. Don’t let them get behind you.”

“Likewise,” she whispers, brushing her fingertips against the bare skin of his cheek. He feels it like a brand, burning through his skin to mark itself on his soul.

He watches her take the first step as he draws his sword, a silent prayer forming in his head. _Maker guide her and keep her safe. Let no harm come to her._ He didn’t bother saying such a prayer on his own behalf. He knows better than to pray for mercy that he does not deserve.

Blackwall is only a moment behind her, less than a dozen beats of his heart, but several yards ahead of where they had hidden an inferno rages unhindered by the rain, chains of lightning dancing from body to body.  The smell of burning darkspawn flesh fills the air, the rancid bite of it making his stomach curl. His lips curl too, smiling as he moves past Catheryn. “Good girl,” he murmurs under his breath at the telltale blue pooling at her feet. She finishes the sweeping twirl of her staff across her shoulders and plants it in the ground, a dozen or more bolts of lightning bursting from the tip. They race ahead of him, exploding in a riot of purples and silvers as they hit the chest of the nearest darkspawn. Blackwall roars and as one the Darkspawn swivel their head in his direction.

 _Fucking bastards_ , he thinks to himself, and then he is on them.

The first sweep of his shield catches the foremost darkspawn square in the chest and it goes down in a sickening crunch of bone and metal. He doesn’t stop, can’t stop, to see if it’s dead. It’ll get up or it won’t. Instead, he follows through with the movement, swinging his body the other way, his sword angling across an unprotected flank.

The heat of blood spraying the air, he can feel it, splashing across the exposed skin on his hands. The quick careful intake of breath – through his nose, not his mouth – and the sweep of his shield. He barely gets it around in time to block the attack he can feel whistling through the air behind him. The fire is hot, but dying, beneath his feet and he can smell the ozone in the air but no more lightning strikes.

Blackwall drops.

He feels himself sink down, retreating to the measured, echoing beats of his heart and hiding amidst the sound of his blood, like wind, rushing through his ears.

This is who he is. This is what he does. Violence and bloodshed; the slam of the shield and the stroke of the sword. He doesn’t need to pay attention to his feet. He can feel the earth beneath him just like he can feel his sword and shield, extensions to his arms. His progress through the monsters the underground has spawned is a dance choreographed to a tune that only he can hear.

Blackwall is good at killing.

It has been a while since he has had to kill so many alone, though, and he can feel it. It changes the way he moves, the way he dances, weaving in and out between their half-charred forms. He charges when he’d normally rest. He must be faster, stronger, more reckless than normal. He must end it sooner, must put them down before he tires and becomes easy prey. He slashes wider, thrusts deeper. His mind sees the swing of sword and axe and calculates which must be met. The axe is blocked by the shield, the slice of his own sword removing an arm. The fountain of blood rivals the rain as it falls around him. Blackwall moves, angling, ducking and takes the edge of the sword to the back of his shoulders. The blade is blocked by the armor there, but he can feel the strike reverberating down through his flesh. He’ll have a bruise there, no doubt about it, the kind that aches even after it’s been healed.

When the bastards are down, and staying down – it’s rather hard to move around without a head after all – Blackwall lets himself pause and suck in a breath. Still through his nose because damned if he’ll get the blight. He’s seen it enough times to know that it is absolutely not the way he wants to go.

The unmistakable clap of lightning striking calls his attention, eyes spinning until they find her. Catheryn has closed in on the alpha while he has dealt with the others, her staff an unending blur as she spins it around her: fire, frost, and lighting. The alpha is close enough that each swing of his maul – and _Maker_ , it really _is_ as big as the Inquisitor – forces her to jump and duck and _move_ or else risk becoming nothing more than a flattened heap on the rocks.  But it doesn’t interrupt her casting. Never once does the graceful swing of her staff falter.

The pool of blue light at her feet, however, does.

“No,” he whispers to himself, unaware that he is already moving, his feet eating across the ruin strewn distance between them. Her barrier flickers: once, twice, and then he feels it. The silent _boom_ that fills the air as it shatters, the concussion pushing out and away from the mage. The alpha staggers but doesn’t go down, doesn’t hesitate. “NO!” Blackwall roars.

Then he is there, between them, arm extended and locked because it can get there faster than the rest of him can. His shield bears the entirety of the attack and he can’t stop the huff of pain as he feels his arm shatter beneath the impact. The strength of the blow drives him to his knees and he forces himself to let go, let the shield slip from his useless arm as he grinds his teeth against the pain and surges to his feet.

“Blackwall!”

He’s looking straight into her beautiful eyes when the next blow catches him, a thunderous swipe to his side. He turns into it, welcoming it, welcoming the way he can feel it crush his armor and force the broken metal through his skin. Better him than her. Always. If this is how he dies then at least he’ll have done something worthwhile in all of his miserable life.

Down he goes again, his knees hitting the ground. This time, he knows, he’s not getting up.

Dimly, as if from far away, he can hear Catheryn screaming. The air around him explodes: a mighty concussion of flame that pelts the monster behind him. One, two, three balls of fire slam into the alpha’s chest  and it trips, unable to right itself because its feet are encased in ice up to the knee.

 _Good girl_ , Blackwall thinks dimly. Blinking back the black that crowds at his vision he searches, tilting his head upward and ignoring how exposed such a position leaves his throat. _There_. Wincing, he shifts his grip on his sword’s hilt and stabs upward. _Take that, you blighted fucker_ , he snarls as the tip finds the weakness, the gap in the torso of the alpha’s armor and slides up into the darkspawn’s gut. He feels its insides give, feels the jerk of its body around the sharpened steel as its slide finds something critical.

Blackwall releases his sword and watches, his good hand planted on the earth to keep from toppling face first into mud and darkspawn blood, as the alpha goes down. Its body hits the ground with a crash, something he can feel and hear in his teeth as the force of it rattles up his flesh.

“Blackwall! You fucking bastard, why would you do that?” Catheryn’s voice, anguished and angry, reaches through the fog that tugs at him. He doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Not that he would. It is a stupid question. Cold, he is cold, the blackness crowding more insistently at his vision. “Oh, no you fucking don’t,” she growls. He feels her hands on his face, squeezing at his cheeks until his mouth pops open. Even the smooth glass cylinder feels warm against his lips as she shoves it into his mouth, pouring the contents across his tongue. He swallows reflexively and feels the familiar herbaceous, almost bitter taste of elfroot slide down his throat. “Don’t you dare leave me here. I will _murder you_ if you attempt something so ridiculous,” she vows and distantly he believes her. “I can’t do this without you!”

 _Silly girl_ , he thinks. She’ll save the world alright, with or without him. She’s too beautifully stubborn to let it die.

Slowly the world comes back into focus. Her eyes, wide and wild in her pretty heart shaped face are the first thing he sees and it takes what little breath he has away. There are tears there, great jeweled droplets beading out of her eyes and streaming down bloodstained cheeks. “There you are,” she breathes, her relief palpable.

He grunts. “The… crevice?” he asks through gritted teeth.

Catheryn scowls. “Maker’s balls,” she growls in disgust. She doesn’t bother to get to her feet or even to grab her staff. Instead she just flings her hand in the direction of the hole in the ground, grunting as a ball of pure energy fills the space in front of her fingers and then shoots outward. Beyond him he can hear the sound of rock shifting and moving, tumbling and settling into the crack in the earth’s surface, blocking the path for future waves of darkspawn. “Happy?” she snarls, dropping her hands.

 _Yes_ , he realizes, surprised. He is.

Maker.

“I can fix this,” she is telling him, pressing a piece of cloth to the blood pulsing from his gut. He recognizes it as a piece of fine linen, soft and breathable, like she would wear beneath her armor. “I can…”

“Your face,” he breathes, interrupting her.

“What about my face?”

He tries to raise a hand to touch and feels his heart stutter to a stop as the shards of bone rub against each other. “Blood,” he tells her instead, biting back the pained cry that rises in his throat. Her face is covered in darkspawn blood.

“Oh, for…” she swears under her breath as she reaches both hands beneath her mail shirt and this time he can hear, faintly, the sound of fabric ripping. She wipes her face carefully, folds the cloth to encase the blood and then tenderly wipes his. “As I was saying,” she glares at him, daring him to interrupt. “I can fix all this. We just need to get you out of your armor.” He nods, giving his consent, knowing that this is what she is after. She hesitates for a moment and then, in a swift, practiced gesture, pulls another potion bottle from her belt and uncorks it with her teeth before pressing it to his lips. “Here.”

He drinks.

“I admit,” she murmurs a few minutes later as her nimble fingers fly over the buckles of his armor, “this is not how I imagined undressing you for the first time.”

Despite the stabbing pain in arm and side he can’t help but let out a shallow bark of laughter. She’ll save him alright. Catheryn Trevelyan is too stubborn to let him die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of notes:
> 
> 1) According to the Dragon Age wikia the events of Inquisition (excluding Trespasser) last about 2 years. I've kept the starting date of 941 Dragon but am otherwise messing with the timeline as I see fit. In my head the events at Haven took place over 9 months and, as of the start of this fic, they have been at Skyhold for another 9-10 months.   
> 2) The size of Ferelden is apparently equal to the size of England. I missed that tidbit until I was nearly through writing this fic so for my purposes the "War Table Spread" of Ferelden and Orlais is roughly the size of the continental USA.  
> 3) Consider this a general spoilers warning for all events within the game, including DLCs.  
> 4) To preserve the plot I won't be putting trigger warnings in the tags or in before the chapter notes but I will put them at the *end* and give notice that they are there should you wish to look at them before reading.  
> 5) I am a chatty author, it appears. My apologies in advance.  
> 6) Comments, kudos, criticisms, and everything in between kind of make my day.  
> 7) I have aslo updated these notes, which apparently requires me to update the chapter, so double apologies if you got a lot of emails over it!


	2. Blackwall, the Cowardly Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've settled on Mondays and Thursdays for updating. If I can't keep far enough ahead in my writing then I might drop back to once a week. And yes, this fic is finished, but it is by no means all of the story. I've got...[consults notes]... 17 (holy shit, how did that happen!?!) fics outlined for this series ranging from one-shots to larger multi-chapters (like this one). To keep you, my dear readers, from suffering from any "Oooh, shiny!" impulses my muse might undertake no fics will be posted (even in part) until they are complete.

“This will have to do,” Catheryn tells him apologetically. The cave in front of them is little more than a hollow in the side of the cliff, another toppled column and trapped rubble giving it a roof roughly the size of a single bedroll. The entire space is just as small and barely tall enough for them to sit upright but it is less than dozen yards from where they fought the darkspawn, will keep the rain off of them for the most part, and doesn’t require any climbing to reach.

“It’ll do,” Blackwall grunts, echoing her thoughts.

Catheryn bites her lip and helps him into the cave. He is so pale, the skin of his face sallow and stark against the dark bounty of his beard. For a minute there, a terrible awful minute that had stretched for an eternity, she had thought she had lost him. She had thought she had seen the life flee the pale blue and green depths of his eyes, leaving them glassy and empty as he had stood before her, shielding her with his body even as it fell.

 _He’s alive_ , she reminds herself, repeating it over and over in her head. _He’s alive. He didn’t die. He’s right here. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive._ She’s shoved two healing potions down his throat and – thanks to Dorian’s paranoia - she has a lyrium potion in her belt. She can heal him. He’ll be just fine. Alive.

She lets out a shaky breath and rocks back on her heels. “Wait,” she stalls his head from hitting the ground with a gentle touch, shrugging out of her leather coat. It’s not the soft bed he deserves and it’s dotted with bits of darkspawn blood but it’s better than the cold, hard rocks.  Carefully she turns it inside out and folds it, tucking it beneath his head. “Don’t,” she stalls the protest she can see forming on his full lips. “Please, Blackwall,” she begs softly, pressing on his uninjured shoulder in silent plea.

“As you wish, my lady.” He lets his head fall to the folded leather and shuts his eyes. Narrowly, very narrowly, Catheryn bites back a demand for him to open them. He looks too much like death lying there with blood still oozing sluggishly from beneath his undershirt – his armor having been discarded among the bodies of the darkspawn. She doesn’t care about the armor. She’ll build him a new suit himself if she has too.

“Fuck,” she gasps, peeling the shirt away. Barely, out of the corner of her eye, she catches a faint twitch of Blackwall’s lips. He’s smiling at her choice of words and she would too if she wasn’t trying to push down the panic she feels at the sight of his exposed flesh. If the Maker was kind she would the time to enjoy the expanse of tan skin, to run her fingers through the thick curls of chest hair or trace the lines of his abs with her tongue. But the Maker isn’t kind. Not today.

Today she is left staring at the hole in his side, the edges of the wound jagged from where she had to pry the pieces of his chest plate out of it. It is still bleeding: a steady dribble that sneaks out around the curve of the broken rib and past the pale pink loops of intestine that are bulging out of his gut. This close she can see the thin white lines – scars – that mark the ropes of his insides.

 _How is he still alive?_ She wonders, wrapping her shaking hands around the thin vial of blue, gently swirling liquid. He shouldn’t be and the knowledge that only that first health potion had kept him from death is enough to make her shut her eyes.

So close. She’d been so close to losing him. If she hadn’t been so quick to pour the potion down his throat… if the alpha hadn’t died when it had… the man she loved would be nothing more than a husk of flesh and bone lying in the rain.

 _He’s alive,_ Catheryn tells herself as she drinks the lyrium, grimacing at the rush of power flooding through her veins. _You can break down later. Right now you need to be strong._ Out loud she warns, “This is going to hurt.”

“Can’t possibly be much worse than it already is,” he grunts and for his sake she prays that he is right.

 

* * *

 

Catheryn is not sure how long it takes to mend Blackwall’s broken body. There is no time where she exists among the pulse of magic and the singing of lyrium. All that exists is the soft _whoosh, whoosh, whoosh_ of his blood as it swirls past her and, eventually, the steady beating of his heart as she knits together muscle and sinew, realigns bone, mends leaking vessels, and scrubs away the sickness and infection already trying to take hold before poking everything back into place.

She can’t heal everything. One lyrium potion on top of lagging mana isn’t enough for that but it’s enough to take care of the worst. It’s enough to bring the gaping death wound in his belly to the fresh, shiny pink of a new scar breaking free from old scabs. It’s enough to pull the bones in his arm straight and piece them back together: a puzzle of fine, white shards.

She’ll take it.

“There,” Catheryn announces quietly as she pulls herself back together and opens her eyes. “Good as new.” She hesitates a moment, her hands scrambling for his in the dark. “How are you feeling?” she asks, ignoring her own declaration as she searches out his eyes. “I tried to get everything but…”

The firm pressure of his hands constricting around hers puts a halt to her words. “I have been in more than enough battles to know that I should be dead,” he tells her quietly, the steady rumble of his voice brushing across her knuckles as he presses her hands to his mouth. “But I am not, my lady, because of you. I feel amazing,” he assures quietly. “Tired and sore but amazing.”

A tension that she hadn’t realized she was hanging onto leaks from her body and Catheryn melts, slumping over her Warden until her lips are practically dragging against his forearm. “Don’t you ever do that again,” she orders harshly, the full weight of her terror rising in the wake of her relief. “Promise me.”

“No.” Blackwall’s voice is firm, though infinitely more gentle. “That is a promise I cannot keep.”

“But you nearly _died_.” Tears are slipping from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. He inhales sharply, no doubt feeling them drop against his skin.

“Yes, but that’s my _job_.”

Catheryn shakes her head stubbornly. “I could have gotten a barrier back up. I wouldn’t have been harmed.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees, “Perhaps not. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take, my lady. Your life is infinitely more important than my own.”

She pulls her hands and his upwards, clutching them to her face. The tears fall faster, harder as his words break over her. Stupid man, how can he not _know_? After all this time how could he not know what he means to her? This war is going to eventually take her life. She’d accepted that fact long ago. Her life is meaningless, held in limbo between the writ of execution and the fall of the headman’s axe. Blackwall’s though… his is bright and vibrant, a steady flame against the chaos that she treasures close to her heart.

She didn’t think he needed to hear her say it to understand. Apparently she had been wrong.

“It is to me,” she whispers.

Blackwall stills beside her. She can practically feel the tension coiling through recently healed muscles as he prepares to pull away. He will do it gently but he _will_ do it. He always does. He always recoils, pushing her away in this sort of moment. Maker forbid they acknowledge what lies between them – or what might, if he would stop fighting and let it happen.

Catheryn bows her head over his hands, rubbing her cheek across his knuckles. She gets so little chance to touch him that she’ll do it however, whenever she can. Now, before he pushes her away. Before the pain of disappointment stabs at her heart and forces her to huddle in beside him. She’s too tired to do anything else, the weight of her exhaustion pulling at her like a physical thing. So she kneels in the rain and waits for the gentle rejection to come.

Blackwall pulls his hands from her grip and she lets him, her eyes fluttering shut.

 _See?_ She tells herself. _Everything is back to normal._

Except it isn’t.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall breathes, cupping her face in his hands. “You’re shaking.”

Catheryn can’t help it. Her lips curve into a small smile. “It’s raining,” she points out dryly, “And dark. And cold.” Her eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that she can track his movements as he abruptly releases her face and, after a moment’s hesitation, pushes himself into a sitting position. Or as close to a sitting position as he can get. It seems the cave is even shorter than her initial estimation. Or Blackwall is somehow actually bigger than she thinks he is. Both are entirely possible.

“Come here,” he murmurs gruffly, both command and plea. Catheryn opens her mouth to respond because surely they both won’t _actually_ fit in there. She hadn’t exactly been looking for a two person cave when she’d hauled him over here. She hadn’t even been looking for a cave. She just wanted something to keep the rain off the Warden while she healed him. Blackwall doesn’t give her a chance to voice her doubts. Instead he wraps his hands around her waist and hauls her, easily, into his lap. “You’re going to freeze to death,” he murmurs, pushing her wet hair back and trailing his fingers down her neck to rest lightly on her mail shirt. “Are you up to starting a fire?” he asks, “Or those rune things? I’m not sure there is wood within reach, let alone wood that might actually burn.”

Catheryn shakes her head wearily, relaxing into his touch. His skin is warm, even hot against her own, and she shivers at the sudden warmth. “Not yet. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have enough mana to set a fire rune.” It wouldn’t make things toasty but it would keep them from freezing before morning with a minimal drain on her power. Catheryn figures that if she’s lucky she’ll have the chance to set at least two or three of them before she passes out. So many of her tasks seem to involve nearly freezing to death. Just between Catheryn and her subconscious she is starting to think that the Maker has got a fetish of some kind.

“Let’s get this off you then. It’s practically frozen.” Blackwall’s fingers pluck at the mail and wearily Catheryn hauls herself upward – or as upward as she can get without smashing the back of her head on the ceiling – and begins to squirm out of the rest of her armor. 

It isn’t until she has it off and is dropping it carelessly on the ground outside of the cave – _Fuck it, I’ll get myself new armor too –_ that she realizes that Blackwall has stopped helping her. Instead, he has a death grip on the hem of what remains of her undershirt. “ _Oh_ ,” she sighs as realization dawns, her hands slipping down her side, tracing the path she wishes his hands would wander. Exhaustion, so present and overwhelming just a moment before is gone. Dark and predatory he stares at her, irises nothing more than a thin sliver of color ringing blown pupils. She can feel an energy rising in her blood, something hotter than magic, that whispers and curls through her, urging her to rock her hips against his lap, to twist and turn tauntingly upon the growing evidence of his interest.

 _I shouldn’t_ , she whispers to herself, but she can’t, for life of her, remember why she shouldn’t. So she does.

Their groans fill the small space and Catheryn has to steady herself with a hand against his chest, fingers threading through his chest hair, before she does it again. “Maker,” Blackwall growls, his grip tightening until she can hear the fabric begin to tear beneath the strain. “My lady…”

She cuts him off with a kiss. It’s a gentle thing, soft and barely there, just a press of her lips to his. She’s not cold, not now with his hands at her waist and his body beneath hers. She’s not tired – or if she is, well, then her body is so much more interested in what might be unfolding that it’s more than willing to shove the exhaustion back. “Blackwall,” she all but sobs into his mouth, “ _please…_ ”

He nearly died. He nearly _died_ and _left_ her here in this Maker forsaken place. He’s nearly died dozens, if not hundreds, of times in her service. But this is different. She doesn’t know why or how. Maybe because it is just the two of them. Maybe because he jumped in front of her when he didn’t need to. Maybe it was because she was staring into his eyes when it happened. It could be all of those things or none of them but frankly Catheryn doesn’t give a damn. She just _wants_. Wants him, wants to feel him alive and moving; wants to know without a doubt that he is alive and here with her - that this is real. That he _lives_.

He shudders beneath her and she knows the moan that falls from his mouth and into hers for what it is: consent, submission. “Yes,” he growls and his voice is practically gone, the deep sound coming from his chest decidedly less human and more a bear who has been eating  rocks.

Slowly he removes her undershirt, caressing her flesh with his thumbs as it is revealed. Shivering, she keens softly beneath his touch as he drags it up the line of her ribs and traces the edge of her breast band. “Please…” she begs softly, clutching at his hair as he drops his lips to the curve of her neck. She doesn’t even know exactly what she’s begging for. She just knows that she _needs_ and that he can provide it. He laughs softly, and it’s a primal sound that goes straight to her core. _Oh, Maker._

“I’ve got you, love,” he growls into her skin, nipping at her collarbone. The words make her dizzy. _Love_. Does he mean it? “I’ve got you.” His lips find hers and he _kisses_ her. He kisses her like he’s dying and she’s the last bit of water on earth. He kisses her like a man starved.  He kisses her until she’s mewling, vibrating in his lap. He kisses her until the edges of her vision begin to fuzz.

“ _Oh_ ,” she gasps, head flying back as his hand cups around one of her breasts, her band fluttering to the ground, forgotten already. She hadn’t even noticed him removing it - not that it seems to have caused him any trouble. Catheryn threads her fingers through his hair, nails scraping at his skull.  She’s panting, trying to get air into her lungs and she can’t, not while he’s trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down her front. “Blackwall…!” his name falls from her lips in a loud moan as he drags his teeth down her breast, latching his mouth over her nipple as he groans. And then he does this _thing_ with his _tongue_ and _pinches_ the other nipple between his fingers, giving it a sharp little twist and she screams, grinding down on him.

Close, he’s so close to where she wants him and…

Catheryn is not sure how he does it without giving both of them head injuries but she’s suddenly on her back with Blackwall above her, her entire body bracketed between his knees and his arms. Instinctively she rolls her hips up against his.

“ _Fuck_.” The curse leaves his lips in a violent punch. His hips snap downward in response and she can feel him pressed up against her, hard and thick against the front ties of his breeches. “ _Fuck!_ ” he repeats, burying his face in the curve of her neck.

“Maker, _yes_ ,” Catheryn hums in approval as she nuzzles into his beard, nipping along his jawline. “Please…”

Blackwall laughs again, his breath hot against her skin. “Oh, I intend to,” he whispers. “But not yet.” For a moment, just a moment, Catheryn thinks that he is talked himself out of this, that he’s going to leave and he must see the fear in her face because he smiles at her, folding himself awkwardly to nip at her breasts, hard enough that she’ll have bruises in the morning, as he slides his hands beneath the waistband of her leggings. “You’re wearing too many clothes, love.”

Her heart stutters in her chest. That word. He used that word again.

She shivers, her flesh pebbling at the sudden brush of air as he undresses her.

“My biggest regret about this,” Blackwall whispers, tracing a line down her bare leg, “is that I can’t do what I’ve really wanted to do to you since the moment I met you.”

 “Oh?” she gasps as he brings his hands up the interior of her legs, pushing them apart so that he can kneel between them. “And what is that?”

Blackwall smiles, a bright flash of white teeth in the relative darkness of their sanctuary. His breath his hot, blistering even, as it puffs over her ear, his finger rubbing delicious circles into the flesh of her thigh. “Put my head between your legs and stay there until you can’t even scream my name,” he growls quietly, “let alone remember yours.” Catheryn swallows. Hard. Maker, that’s a mental image that she’ll never be able to unsee. Not that she would want to. Ever. “I can’t do that here,” he continues, the feather light touch of his hand slowly moving higher. “Cave’s too small for me to hook your legs over my shoulders or for you to ride my face – and with my luck more darkspawn will appear if I thrust my ass out into the elements.” Laughter rises in her throat at the visual but it comes out of her mouth as a gasp. She can feel the slow, steady progress of his hand and she shifts restlessly, trying to get closer, trying to…

“Are you sure?” she asks breathlessly, because that sounds really, _really_ good right now. If he doesn’t touch her soon she’s pretty sure she’ll combust. Literally. Low mana or no.

“Don’t worry, love,” Blackwall whispers. “I’ve got you.” And then he does, his finger sliding into her without further warning. Her back bows against the intrusion, a wordless cry of relief falling from her lips. It’s delicious, the way she can feel her body stretching around him as he moves his finger, easing it in and out of her body with steady, sure flicks of his wrist. “ _Fuck_ , but you’re so tight.”

Catheryn can’t help the small huff of embarrassed laughter that she ghosts over his cheekbone. “It’s been a while,” she admits quietly. Since before the Conclave, actually, though she doesn’t say that part out loud. There’s not much time to get laid when you are busy saving the world. Blackwall groans into the curve of her neck and shoves his finger deeper, palm rocking against her cunt as his thumb strokes, feather light, over her clit. “Oh, _Maker_ …”

He kisses her while his finger fucks her. Gentle, slow kisses interspersed with sharp, pinching nicks of his teeth as he works his way up from her breasts.  Each prick of pain coincides with the sweep of his thumb over her and the crook of his finger inside of her. She _is_ tight. She can feel it – _feel him_ \- feel the raised, rough surface of the calluses on the pad of his finger as he drags it against her, each stroke making her walls flutter and clench relentlessly around him.

 _More,_ Catheryn thinks wildly. Each pass of his thumb, each stroke of his finger is winding her tighter, capturing the lightning and heat that’s sent racing through her veins with each touch of his lips and coiling it into a spring, priming it for explosion. “More, please, more… I need…” she arches beneath him, rolling her hips to take him deeper. “I need…”

She screams outright, half of the noise muffled by the press of his mouth against hers as he slips a second finger in with the first, nearly coming from that alone. She teeters on the edge, panting frantically into his mouth as every muscle in her body seizes, waiting in a hellish but utterly delicious limbo for her senses to decide which way to fall. Blackwall presses his thumb against her, rubbing once, twice, _hard_ , and she tips over the edge.

“ _Yes_!” Catheryn is relatively certain that her cry of mingled relief and pleasure can be heard up and down the entire length of the Storm Coast. Of course, the vague sense of certainty doesn’t stop her from screaming again, positively howling Blackwall’s name as her body thrashes beneath his touch. She is lost in the curls of pleasure and blurred, half-glimpses of her lover’s outline as he drags his mouth away from hers, his breathing loud and ragged in her ear.

“ _Maker_ ,” she hears him pray against her skin and then everything goes white behind her eyelids, her entire being stiffening as his mouth finds the curve of her neck. She can feel his teeth sinking into her flesh just above her collarbone and that sensation alone is _too much_ , _yes_ , and _don’t fucking stop_ all at once. She’ll have a mark there, a bruise that will adorn her skin in purples, blues, and yellows for _weeks_ if she can avoid taking any healing potions. It’s not highly visible but it’s still there and he might as well have hung a _My Inquisitor. Don’t touch._ sign around her neck.

 Catheryn shatters beneath him, her entire body liquefying as the second orgasm swallows her. The last bits of her control fleeing beneath the sensory onslaught. She can feel her magic on her skin, a welling of Spirit like a cool, gentle weight; the tickle of lightning as it skirts across her skin and jumps to his, prompting a deep, bone shaking groan to fill his mouth as he laves at the mark he left with slow, sure drags of his tongue. There’s not enough mana for her to physically call fire but that doesn’t stop her blood from racing with it, bubbling and popping inside of her veins and flushing her pale skin a dusky pink.

“Blackwall, _please_ …” she begs softly, when she finally begins to remember words again. She arches, thrusting her pelvis against his hand lest he mistake her meaning. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t…” the rest of her words die in her throat as he leaves her abruptly, rocking back on his knees. She can feel his absence so keenly it _hurts_. The lack of his warmth, the lack of his touch leaves her empty and cold on the ground. Catheryn can see him, faintly, in the filtered moonlight as he hovers as upright as he can get and presses his fingers into his mouth. Now it is her turn to pray, breath catching, as she watches him lick her juices from his fingers.

“Beautiful,” he husks when he is done. He drags a solitary finger, still moist from his mouth, down the line of her body. Catheryn groans, eyes fluttering shut at the snap of lightning that follows his touch: little pricks and static flutters that make the pleased, liquefied mass between her legs sit up and take notice. His finger stops when it reaches where his knee is pressed against the inside of her thigh. He gazes at her for a moment and then slowly, deliberately, raises his hand and begins to undo the laces straining across the front of his breeches.  

 _I should help with that. I want to help with that_ … she shifts slightly to do just that, fingers trailing up the warm leather encasing his leg.

Blackwall shudders beneath her touch and stares down at her, “You are so beautiful, Catheryn.”

The sound of her name – No. The sound of _him_ saying her name like _that_ undoes her. He is always so careful, always so formal when they are together. Never mind that he can swear like a dwarf – and has, in fact, sworn enough over games of Wicked Grace to make Varric blush - with her he is always _Inquisitor, Your Worship, My Lady_. The last one isn’t so bad but it never stops. Not even when they’re alone, when it’s no one but _them_ …  She is helpless, bound by the spell of his mouth saying her name, and can do nothing but watch as he frees himself.

“Catheryn…” He groans her name out again, bracing his hands on either side of her head and covering her body with his own. It’s a question and he hesitates, the tip of his cock twitching as it brushes against her entrance.

“Maker’s breath,” Catheryn swears, grabbing his face in her hands and forcing it up to meet her gaze. “Blackwall, don’t stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop!” Blackwall groans, low and deep, and she can feel the few remaining threads of his restraint snap. Her last word turns into a scream as he thrusts into her, sheathing himself in a single motion that nearly undoes her for a third time. She holds on, refuses to fall over that edge, but only just. The stretch, the way he feels as she flutters around him, gripping, pulling, trying to drag him even deeper... “ _Maker_ …” she begs, her hands scrambling to find something, anything to hold on to.

 “Fuck,” he growls into the curve of her neck. “How are you so still so fucking tight?”

“It’s… been…a…while…” she repeats breathlessly, fingers scraping against the skin across his shoulders. He shudders when her fingers find the scar on his left shoulder – a thick, ropey roughness that halts the drag of her nails. “Please…”

“Please, what, love?” Catheryn whimpers, hips jerking at the caress of that word against his skin. “Fuck. Don’t do that… I won’t… I can’t…”

“Don’t. Hold. Back,” she growls into his ear and – _Thank the Maker!_ – he doesn’t. He pulls from her folds and then slams back into her, driving into her depths like he’s trying to crawl up inside of her.

It’s so delicious Catheryn thinks she might die.

She hooks her legs higher over his hips and clings to his skin, pressing her mouth to his, the plunge and glide of their tongues mirroring the slamming of their hips below. She can feel the heat building again, a desperate coil of liquid fire shimmering through her veins. She holds off as long as he can, wanting to relish, to memorize the way he feels as he slides into her, the stretch – _still_ – and the jerk of her body as he nails that spot, the harsh, ragged sound of his breathing in her ear.  But eventually she can’t fight biology, can’t fight the way her body reacts to him, to the way it _sings_ beneath his touch.

Catheryn comes screaming, her entire body locking down around him. He jerks in her arms, the strangled scream of his own pleasure echoing her own as he spills into her – a heat that sets her trembling anew.

It isn’t until later, when Blackwall has re-laced his breeches and turned her onto her side to tuck himself in behind her with his back to the elements and blood stained leather of her coat thrown over both of them that she remembers. Blindly, Catheryn throws out her hand and finds the hewn wall of the cave and gently traces a rune upon its surface. It flashes brightly in completion and then dies to a soft glow, heat radiating from its lines. She manages one more upon the floor of the cave before exhaustion claims her and she lets it, drifting off to sleep with Blackwall’s lips pressed to the nape of her neck.

 

* * *

 

It’s hard afterwards.

In the morning they rise and dress wordlessly before setting off for the camp where Dorian and The Iron Bull wait for them. As predicted, both men barely registered their extended absence, though after a few careful moments of observation Bull shoots him a look that could only be described as _lewd_.

Fucking Ben-Hassarath.

Blackwall ignores him.

Nothing changes as they make their way back to Skyhold. Dorian still complains about the weather and lack of peeled grapes. Iron Bull waffles between badgering Catheryn about hunting dragons and leering after Dorian. Blackwall hears more about the Tevinter’s ass that he ever, ever wanted to. Catheryn still laughs, lighter and easier here on the road than in Skyhold, though no less graceful and still so fucking beautiful he can’t breathe. At night they still pitch their tents by the road and sit around the fire trading bad jokes and simple food before heading to their tents – Dorian and Bull to one, he and the Herald to the other.

It’s hard, though.

It’s hard to not take her hand as they ride side by side and press kisses to her fingertips. It’s hard not stare at her as she rides ahead, goading Dorian into a race, and wonder what it would feel like to have her ride _him_ like that. It’s hard, now that he knows just how sweet she tastes to not fall to his knees before her and worship her with his tongue. Properly. Without cursed restrictions of height, width, or weather to hinder him.

 It’s even harder – frequently literally – at night when all he can hear is Bull and Dorian. All of Thedas can hear them, of that he has no doubt. _She’d_ _give them a run for their money though_ , he thinks as he lies next to her. He can hear her in every moment – waking or sleeping. The soft cries. The desperate, needy moans and whimpers. The panting heave of her trying to catch her breath. The way she screams and growls, howling his name as she orgasms. They’re the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard and the constant replay his mind presents him is enough to keep him perpetually half hard.

It’s even worse in the morning.

With the passing of this final, physical barrier between them it seems that it is impossible for them to keep to themselves at night. It has been months - nearly a year, even - since Catheryn and her companions have kept to their own bed rolls. But this is different. This isn't pressing together for warmth or to keep the horror and guilt away while they sleep. They start each night in their own bed rolls but by morning they have migrated to a space between: tangled up in each other and a flurry of bedding. Inevitably he finds himself staring into that gorgeous dark brown gaze as her eyes flutter open for the first time and it’s hardest here, with her legs tangled in his and her fingers fisted in his undershirt, to not give in to the desire he can see in her eyes. It’s everything he can do not to take her there – every morning, all morning – to worship every inch of her flesh with every miserable, unworthy ounce of his.

It’s hard, but he resists because he knows if he gives in, if he starts than he will never be able to stop. He’ll drown himself in her, in the hope and life that she represents. He’ll love and he’ll laugh and he’ll live.

He’s tired. So tired of being a ghost – of hiding behind a stolen name and a stolen shield. He wants to be _him_ again, to hear his real name fall from her mouth in desperate passion. He meant to tell her. He was supposed to tell her before things got this far.

Blackwall pulls her aside in the stables of Skyhold and presses a soft, chaste kiss to her lips. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Not for _that_ ,” he adds hastily as she flinches away from him. “ _Never_ for that,” he growls and this time when he kisses her it is with the passion that she deserves – a press of lips and stroke of tongues that leaves her boneless and whimpering in his hands. _Maker preserve me_ , he prays quietly as he steps away. He has to. If doesn’t he will take her. Here. Now. Up against the stalls and never mind who might wander in. “Don’t ever doubt how I feel,” he pleads quietly. “But I…” he stutters to a halt, feeling the words on his tongue. _I love you_. It would be so easy to let them out but he can’t. If he can do nothing else then he’ll keep this promise to himself. When he tells Catheryn that he loves her he will do it as himself. “… I have to think.”

It’s hard standing there and doing nothing when every muscle in his body screams at him to go to her, to hold her, to kiss her again. But he does. He stands beneath her gaze and does not flinch. “Alright,” she agrees softly and lays a hand on his cheek. “I’ll be here. Waiting.”

Blackwall nods. “Thank you,” he murmurs and the words sit on his tongue again but he doesn’t say them. Instead he ghosts the lightest of kisses across her knuckles. “My lady.” Catheryn offers him a small, tired smile and leaves him here in his domain.

 She makes it as far as the entrance to the stables before her duties as Inquisitor catch up to her.  It’s one of Leliana’s spies. The man that’s always lurking around Cullen’s office. John? No. Jim. His name is Jim and Blackwall is not overly fond of him. “Lady Leliana requests your immediate presence at the War Table,” the man rattles off. “It’s concerning the Empress’ troops in the Exalted Plains.”

Catheryn grimaces but nods. “I’ve been expecting something. Inform Leliana I will be there in five minutes and then go and tell Cassandra, Cole, and Solas that I request their presence in the War Room at their earliest convenience.”

“Of course, your Worship,” the spy salutes with a fist to his heart and darts off into the swirling crowds. Catheryn stands in the stable yard and turns her face skyward, sighing. Blackwall’s heart aches for her. She doesn’t even get a chance to bath or eat before the next emergency calls for her attention.  He knows the summons his companions are about to receive. He’s been on the receiving end more often than not. She’s barely stepped foot in Skyhold and already she is readying to leave.

He’s a miserable, selfish bastard for stealing so much time away from her. And for nothing. He didn’t tell her. He couldn’t bring himself to speak to the truth, to watch her face as he revealed everything she knew about him to be a lie.

Blackwall watches her go. He’d know her anywhere just by the way she moves, the slight jut of her hip and the sway of her ass as she walks – an action that makes both his heart and his cock jump. Maker, there’s no saving him is there?

“You’re a fucking idiot.” The Iron Bull isn’t pulling any punches today it seems.

“I know,” Blackwall agrees quietly. Because really, what else can he do? He gets ten days alone – well, practically alone – with a gorgeous, intelligent, vibrant woman with whom he is madly in love with and who, for some unfathomable reason, seems to love him in return. And what did he do with those days? He moped like the miserable cur he is, too caught up in his own lies to realize the gift he had been given until it nearly taken from him. Then, to add insult to injury, after they make love he all but ignores her for the duration of the trip because _I have to think_. His own words ring mockingly in his head and no matter how hard he concentrates he can’t make them go away.

It’s hard, being a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me I'm not the only one that thinks Blackwall would have a super-awesome-gruff-and-gravelly sex voice.  
> Also he always looks so... padded... in the game but stick that boy in some torso revealing armor and JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL. (A fact I had to prove to my husband after he read this chapter and which earned a "Dayy-uuum" esque response).
> 
> As always I love and cherish every comment and kudo almost as much as I love chocolate! See you next Monday!


	3. Damned if You Do, Damned if You Don't

Catheryn’s feet nearly take her to the stables before she remembers.

 Time.

 Blackwall has asked for time to think – time without her. The agreement, such as it was, had been that she would leave him be and, most importantly, that she would let him come to her. She wouldn’t press where she wasn’t wanted.

_He said he didn’t regret the sex_ , she reminds herself, _So whatever he’s thinking about can’t be that bad. Right?_

At least, that’s what Catheryn has been telling herself for the past month. For the first couple of weeks she even believed it. That changed as the days passed. Every time they engaged a horde of shambling undead or threw themselves into a group of demons and Blackwall wasn’t where experience and habit told her he _should_ be she found herself believing a little less. Catheryn loves Cassandra. The prickly warrior with her hidden gooey center is one of her dearest friends and is an unparalleled warrior. That didn’t stop Catheryn from looking for someone else in the Seeker’s place. Or at least at her side.

She might have made it. She’d certainly run field operations without Blackwall before. Not frequently, but it is known to happen. She might have been able to focus on the good they were doing, on the stability they were returning to a region torn by war and strewn with decay. She might have been able to push past her worry, bury her exhaustion, and ignore the stench of burning flesh and rotting corpses that lingered in her nose and coated her throat. She’d nearly done it.

And then a handful of frightful, ignorant mages had sought to use powers they didn’t understand and Wisdom had died for it. Wisdom, so sweet and enduring, who had been all too happy to assist Solas in nurturing Catheryn’s budding abilities as a Rift Mage.

It had begun with a scream that had pierced both their dreams, rousing Solas and Catheryn to wakefulness and catapulting the team into a mad dash across the Plains. It had ended with her hand wrapped around Solas’ arm, pleading for the mages’ lives.

_Did I do the right thing?_ She wonders as she slumps against the wood of a market stall long since closed for the day. _She was my friend too_.  It would have been so easy to destroy them, to wipe their sniveling cowardice and ignorance off the face of the earth forever. But she hadn’t and she hadn’t let Solas do it either. Surrounded by so much death, and already the bringer of so much more, she couldn’t bear to see more blood on her hands – on _his_.  Instead, they’d watched the mages flee. Instead, she’d watched the apostate remove himself from the group before turning his face heavenward, the howl of his rage and grief echoing across the landscape until the world itself seemed to flinch around her. She’d watched as he’d fallen to his knees and bowed his head, his entire form slumping until she couldn’t take it – until she’d gone to him and gathered him into her arms. She’d laid a gentle hand across his cheek in benediction and watched him walk away, the tears staining his cheeks mirrored on her own.

Solas still hasn’t returned and frankly, she is beginning to wonder if he will.

Catheryn shuts her eyes against the tears that gather there. She is so tired and sad and lonely. She wants nothing more in all of existence then to walk into the stables and straight into Blackwall’s arms and never leave. _Time_ , he had asked for. _Space_ , went unsaid but she will honor it anyway. Even now. Even when she needs him. Letting her eyes flutter open she allows herself to stare at him for just a moment through the half closed barn door. He’s standing before the small fire he keeps when it gets cold, arms crossed over his chest. She doesn’t need to see his face to know it’s him. She’d know him anywhere by the breadth of his shoulders and the way he stands, as if he’s perpetually holding a shield, even when his hands are empty.

“Oh, for the love of Andraste,” she growls to herself, wrenching away. “Stop mooning like a lovesick girl.” It is ridiculous. _She_ is ridiculous. And lovesick. And worried. And overwhelmed. And so very, very frightened.

“Mouth hot on your skin, fingers scrambling against stone. It burns but it doesn’t hurt until he doesn’t fan the flames,” Cole’s voice whispers out of the darkness, the sharp angle of his elbow brushing against her shoulder as he materializes beside her. He cocks his head so that that she can see the watery blue of his gaze beneath the brim of his ridiculous hat. “I don’t understand why you want to burn.” He tips his head towards the stables and squints at the flicker of firelight.

Catheryn sighs wearily. “Someday, you might Cole,” she murmurs in response. “It’s not something I can really explain.” It’s not something she really wants to try and explain either. For one, her heart just wouldn’t be in it tonight. For another, Bull explaining the mechanics of sex to the spirit had been bad enough. Catheryn hadn’t thought it possible to embarrass the promiscuous Qunari. She’d been wrong.

“He wants to burn too but he burns already with a hurt that can’t be spoken,” the spirit boy continues. “It will only hurt more. Caught in the web of so many hurts – pluck the thread of one and three other snarl in its place. There’s no way out. I tried to help but…” Cole shakes his head, distressed. “He tells me to leave it be. The hurts are his and can’t be forgotten. _I just want to help_.”

“Cole…”

“They whisper to him in the night – a song he can’t escape, tempting him with things that cannot be.  Kick a broken dog and string it up high. Why won’t the mongrel stay down? It’s not strong enough to protect everyone. Weary and worn, how can he stop the world from burning if he can’t save even the one?”

“Cole!” The spirit inhales sharply at the crack of her voice, his eyes snapping to hers. “Are you alright?” she asks. He nods slightly, still staring. “Are you…? Were…?” She wants to ask who he was hearing. If it was… she turns her gaze to the barn, the last shred of belief evaporating beneath Cole’s words.

She just wants everything to be okay.

Cole gathers her hands in his own, the flesh of his corporeal form slightly cool against her skin. “You are his light,” Cole murmurs gently, squeezing her hands. “Warm in his hands and hot in his heart. Blazing, flaring it hurts to look sometimes.  You chase the darkness away and soothe the hurts that eat him alive. You help.”

“But I…” Catheryn can feel the tears gathering again and she shuts her eyes. She will not cry. Not here in the middle of stable yard where anyone might see; where anyone might ask. That’s exactly what she doesn’t need – rumors of the Inquisitor breaking down and falling to pieces.

That’s what the privacy of her room is for.

The pressure of Cole’s forehead against hers stops her departure. “Nothing you will say can ever change that.” She can feel him, feel the magic that is him breaking across her skin, willing her to understand. It must be important for him to touch her so.

Of all the things, all the questions, crowding on her tongue only two words actually get spoken. “Thank you,” she tells him as he backs away. The smile that he gives her from beneath the floppy brim is beatific – sweet and full of innocence. It’s the sort of smile that lights up the world.

“I helped.”

Catheryn stares at the shadows into which Cole dissolved, a thousand thoughts racing around her head. “Fuck it,” she finally murmurs and, turning on her heels, lets her feet carry her the rest of the way. They alone, it appears, always knew where she was going.

               

* * *

 

 Blackwall knows she is there as soon as she slips through the barn doors. He doesn’t hear her or see her but he can smell her. She always smells the same – elfroot and ozone softened faintly by lavender and dawn lotus. Catheryn pauses at the edge of the fire, hesitating. It’s likely that she doesn’t want to disturb him – as if she could ever bother him. It was he who is likely a bother.  “My lady,” he greets quietly, hoping that she hears her welcome.

 She hesitates a moment longer and the steps into the firelight.  Blackwall feels his breath catch in his chest, choked behind the emotion that lodges itself in his throat. She’s finally out of her armor and dressed as simply as Josephine lets her – naught but creamy tan leggings and a midnight blue tunic covering her form. Earlier in the day, when he was busy restraining himself from jumping her before she was even off of her horse, Blackwall had idly wondered if they’d let her bathe and eat before ushering her into the meetings that no doubt waited for her. Judging by the current state of her hair, its beautiful auburn strands turned a deep brown with the moisture they still retrain, the answer to that is no, they had not.

 Bastards.

Can’t they see that they’re running her to the ground? She’s obviously lost weight in the month she’s been gone, her clothes skimming her curves instead of looking like she had to be sewn into them, and there are shadows of exhaustion underneath her eyes.

_Beautiful_ _though_ , he breathes silently, _still so fucking beautiful_.  Blackwall digs his fingers into the cloth of his shirt and the flesh underneath so that he doesn’t march into the keep and up into the blighted tower of hers and start punching Leliana in the face.

“Blackwall,” her voice is low and throaty and he shivers, he knees threatening to buckle beneath him. Maker, he has missed her. He’s missed the way she smells, the way she laughs, the way she feels when he’s brave enough – foolish enough – to take her in his arms and hold her. An idiot, Iron Bull called him, and he was. _Is._ But by the time he’d pull his head out of his ass far enough to realize that she was going out into the field without him it had been too late. She’d already left and he was left with only his own miserable company for a month.

So of course, bereft of anything better to do than read through reports, he had found one that had changed absolutely everything.

He wants to cross the distance between them and kiss Catheryn senseless. He wants to hold her, to love her, to be with her in every sense of the word. He wants this life she offers him, this brilliant new beginning. But he can’t forget the report he has folded in his pocket, can’t escape the way it hangs heavy as death around his neck.

It will be his death. He can feel it.

Blackwall knows, staring across the fire to the woman who has captured him body and soul, that he has both waited too long and not long enough.

So he digs his fingertips into his own flesh until he can feel it bruise and he doesn’t hold her like he aches to, doesn’t worship her like she deserves to be worshiped. “Want a drink?” he asks instead. “I’ve a hankering for company.” If this is too be his last night with the Inquisition he – selfishly – would have it be with her.

Catheryn tilts her head and meets his gaze. “Of course,” she agrees.

Even in the summer the Frostbacks get freezing at night, wind racing across the keep from glaciers that show no sign of melting even beneath the hot summer sun, and she loops her arm through his, huddling close as they walk silently across the courtyard. The tavern is packed tonight. Predictably Bull and his Chargers are crowded over in their corner laughing and rousing, hands wrapped around mugs of beer. For a moment Blackwall fears that the Qunari is going to call them over, an invitation that Catheryn would not refuse. Instead, Bull tips his head in silent acknowledgement and goes back to whatever conversation is going on around him.

Blackwall wonders how much of his fear showed on his face to have the Qunari spy acquiesce the Inquisitor’s time so freely to him. A heartbeat later he decides he’d rather not know.  “Is the Inquisitor’s room free?” he asks Cabot as they approach the bar. While it is technically the _Inquisitor’s_ room she allows her Inner Circle free reign with its use and Varric in particular likes to appropriate it on a regular basis for spreading out all of his notes in a single, draft free place. When he’s not using it for games of Wicked Grace, that is.

The bartender raises an eyebrow and looks at Catheryn pointedly. “Course it is,” he drawls, tossing a towel over his shoulder, “and if it wasn’t I’d clear it out right quick. What can I get for you?” he directs his gaze towards Catheryn and Blackwall huffs in silent approval. At least someone in this place is looking out for the Inquisitor’s needs. Figures it’d be the bartender.

“Just some tea,” Catheryn orders. “And a brandy.”

Blackwall raises an eyebrow. “Have you eaten today?” he asks gently. The blank look she gives him is not at all reassuring.

“Ummm…” she sucks her upper lip down into her mouth as she thinks. Blackwall shudders and has to look away, the need to kiss her nearly overwhelming. “…Yes?”

 He snorts and takes a deep breath before he dares look back again. “Is that an answer or a question?”

“Both?” she shrugs sheepishly. “I had… a cookie and a piece of cheese earlier.  Josephine ordered snacks.” The knowledge that at least the lady ambassador tried to do something does nothing to calm the snarl he can feel rising in his chest.

“Bring food for the Inquisitor,” he bites out. “And a beer for me.”

“Just something simple,” Catheryn breaks in, “and warm.”

Cabot eyes them, tapping his fingers on the bar top. “Is that all?”

“I believe so. Thank you.” Catheryn smiles at him and the grumpy dwarf actually smiles back.

Blackwall pulls a chair away from the table and waits while she seats herself, his knuckles white as he grasps the sides of the chair. He can see the curve of her neck disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt and it calls to him, a siren song of silken flesh. He can remember what it felt like to have that skin beneath his lips, to feel it beneath his teeth as he marked her in his passion. He didn’t think it could be harder to resist her, to control himself, than it had been during their journey back to Skyhold – when he could still feel her beneath him every time he closed his eyes, could still smell her lingering on his skin. He did not think it could be any more difficult than catching slivers of the bruise, the indentation of his teeth, on the curve of flesh that taunts him even now and aching to grab her and mark her anew.

Maker’s fucking balls, but it is though. It _is._

_Blighted bastard, look at her! Exhausted and hungry and you’re half a step away from taking her like a mindless beast,_ he scolds himself sternly. He throws another log on the fire, stoking the banked embers into roaring flames before taking the seat opposite her. He doesn’t trust himself to sit shoulder to shoulder with her. Not tonight. Perhaps not any night.

He quite imagines that there is a host of ghosts gathered over his shoulders, laughing that the courtly Thom Rainier who – until his betrayal – was the standard to which all chevaliers were raised, was reduced to this base, monster of a man.  Love mixed with desperation, it seems, are quite a heady mixture.

“Speaking from experience, that won’t sit well on an empty stomach my lady” he encourages after watching her empty half of her tea into the saucer and dump the entire inch of brandy into the remaining liquid. “You should eat.”

“I’ll get around to it,” she mutters and sips at her tea. “Don’t feel much like eating these days.”

“Oh? Not enough chocolate cake in the Dales?” he inquires teasingly.

Catheryn shudders, her fingers tightening around the porcelain of the cup. “Ugh. Don’t mention chocolate. I don’t want it ruined for me.” Sighing she sets the teacup down after taking another generous sip. “The Exalted Plains…” she shakes her head. “It’s nothing but death and decay. I’m sure you remember,” she adds and he nods, understanding her grimace. “You would think that after all we did the last time that the air, at least, would begin to recover but the stench is still _everywhere_. You can’t escape it. I can still taste it.” She wrinkles her nose with disgust as she stares gloomily down at the food. “I’d rather not think about it.”

“I understand.” And he did. Some things were too awful to call attention to. “Want me to distract you?”

She nearly breaks her neck as she looks up from where she sits, picking at the slice of bread that had been served alongside the bowl of stew. “Yes,” she replies instantly, a gleam in her eye that nearly has him over the table. He resists. Barely. “What do you have in mind?” she purrs.

Blackwall swallows. Hard.

“A story.” She cocks her head to the side and waits, watching him while he clutches at his drink and tries to calm his racing heart. “I walked in on Dorian and Bull…”

Catheryn snorts and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Please. At this point I think we’d be hard pressed to find someone in this keep who has _not_ walked in on Dorian and Bull.”

“True enough,” he concedes. This had been the fifth time that he alone had done such a thing. “But this is story is less about _who_ and more about _where_.” Now he’s piqued her interest. Her dark eyes narrow as she stares across the table, methodically chewing the piece of bread she’s popped into her mouth.

“Alright. You got me. Where could they have possible done it to warrant that ridiculous look on your face?” she finally asks, leaning back in her chair. “Because we were both there when Mother Giselle walked in on them doing it in the chapel and you didn’t look nearly so amused then – and it was a good solid month before I could walk past the chantry _or_ look at Mother Giselle without dissolving into an undignified fit of giggles. So. Spill.”

Blackwall’s face twitches at the memory. That had been the second time he’d been inadvertently made a voyeur of their passions. “You didn’t get the full frontal of Bull or you’d have been a little less amused and a little more traumatized,” he defends gruffly. “I’ve never felt so…” he waffles, searching for the appropriate word and, after considerable failure, simply makes a hand gesture of his own and hopes that she will understand what he means by it. “… for Dorian.”

Catheryn chuckles, eyes gleaming wickedly. “Oh, I got the same view you did. Made me kind of regret turning down my opportunity to ‘ _Ride the Bull_ ’.”

He chokes on his beer, sputtering and coughing as it tries to drown him. “ _What?_ ”

She is sniggering across the table, nearly choking herself as she tries to sip at her tea. “I said _kind of_ ,” she emphasizes reassuringly, touching the back of his hand. “I’m exhilaratingly happy with riding the Warden, as it were.” He stares, aware that his mouth has fallen open to deal with the sudden frantic need for air, the heat of the room bearing down on his skin as his heart stutters in his chest at such a blatant admission of desire. Maker, but he loves this woman. He will never, ever deserve her but he loves her and has loved her since the day he met her. “That is… if you want…” she shakes her head, color rising in her cheeks as she turns away. He can almost hear the _fuck it_ her lips form silently. He’s stared silently too long and now she thinks that _he_ doesn’t want her. Maker, he’s a pathetic excuse for a man. The least he can do is… “So,” she changes the subject abruptly, interrupting his thoughts, her lips still pressed in a thin line when she finally turns back to him. “You walked in on Dorian and Bull…?”

Blackwall blinks, his throat dry as he looks at her. “Ah, yes.” Coward. He is a fucking coward. There is absolutely no way around that. _Riding the Warden_ …! Maker, but he’s had more dreams than are appropriate about such a scenario for longer than he should admit. He should be telling her – _showing her_ – and he’s not. He’s fucking not, his desires weighed down by the report in one pocket and the badge in the other.

Self-loathing is something Blackwall is achingly intimate with but never has he hated himself quite so much as he does in this moment.

“The War Room,” he tells her and takes a long draught of his beer.

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!” she repeats, eyes wide and lips forming a perfect _O_ of surprise. “Is _nothing_ sacred anymore? Have you told Cullen?” she demands excitedly, the color in her cheeks now something besides embarrassment. “Wait – was Cullen _with_ you?”

 A bark of laughter bursts from his mouth unbidden. “No, he wasn’t with me but…” Maker, the poor bastard would have shit himself on the spot. Or run himself through with his sword. Not because of the sex but more because they were doing it on his precious maps and Dorian… Blackwall clears his throat. “I’d been in the Lady Ambassador’s office looking over reports but she had a meeting with those merchants from Antiva that she’s been talking about for months at least…” Catheryn snorts.

 “At least,” she agrees with a fond shake of her head.

“… and so I thought I’d take the reports into the War Room and finish up there. So I walk in and there they are. Bull’s got Dorian bent over the Frostbacks and is… well…” he raises his eyebrows and prays that she won’t make him actually say it. Catheryn giggles.

“Oh, Dorian…” she shakes her head again and spoons a bite of the stew into her mouth. “Wait. How did you not know that they were in there? How did Josephine not know for that matter? They’re not exactly… quiet.”

That is one way of putting it. The pair had been in the group that had taken Caer Bronach. The first night in the keep half the Inquisition’s forces had come running at the screams that echoed from Dorian’s quarters, thinking that one of the Inquisitor’s companions was under attack. That had been the first time. If anything the pair had only gotten louder since then.

“Ah. Well, you know how Cullen’s markers are all…” Blackwall makes a vague motion with his hands, indicating the general size and shape of the pieces that the Commander uses to represent himself on the War Table map.

“…Yes?” She can see where he is going with this, bits of barely constrained laughter wheezing from the corners of her mouth.

“Dorian had is mouth full of one of those and it, uh, wasn’t going anywhere. Courtesy of Bull’s belt.”

Catheryn is losing it, forehead pressed to the table top while her entire body shakes with the force of her laughter. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard and for the first time tonight he feels like he is finally looking at _his_ Catheryn – impossible, infuriating, bright eyed, with color in her cheeks and laughter on his lips. “Please…” she gasps between fits of laughter, “… tell… me that… he… knows!”

Blackwall smiles indulgently. “As you can imagine I turned right around and left the bastards to it and spent the next _five blighted hours_ talking trade agreements with Josephine and the Antivans.” He scowls, wincing at that memory. “I would have been better off staying in the War Room. “ Catheryn sniggers, nodding her head in agreement.  “And then I tried to put the incident from my mind… Except that a few days later I was back in the War Room with Cullen talking supply routes and… Well, I imagine that Bull cleaned the marker because he’s thoughtful like that but I couldn’t… I couldn’t let Cullen do it.”

“Oh Maker,” she’s wheezing again, hunched over the table and holding on to it for dear life. “Fucking Maker, his face… I bet his face…”

“I’m pretty sure the entire keep heard him scream,” Blackwall chuckles at the memory. “He dumped the whole lot of his markers into the Lady Josephine’s fireplace, threw Dorian’s newest imported bottle out the library window…”

Catheryn groans, “… _No_! Not the ’34… he was supposed to share that with me!”

“… and then he called Bull out into the sparring ring and handed the Qunari’s ass to him on a platter. Everyone was talking about it for nearly a week.” It’s a full ten minutes, at least, before Catheryn calms down enough to start picking at her food again and another ten before she’s recovered enough to speak to him without giggling. “There you are,” he whispers, relieved to see that the fire of her spirit lingers in her eyes, the gaiety that the world is constantly threatening to break.

 “Here I am,” she agrees quietly, smiling brightly as she threads her fingers through his and squeezes gently. “Thank you, Blackwall. I… I needed that.”

“Anything, my lady.” He means it and that is what is so terrifying.  Be it dragons, or demons, or darkspawn - it doesn’t matter. He will face it if she tells him to. He will make small talk, risk being recognized, and dance at a fancy party in Orlais because she wishes it. She owns him, heart and soul. She took the broken warden – the broken _man_ \- and made something of him. She has given him his honor back. The man she found a year and a half ago could not have conceived of a reason to turn himself in, to rip off the mask and reveal that he is Thom Ranier. The man he is today, the man she made him, cannot conceive of a reason to _not_ unmask himself.  Not when the other option is to let an innocent man die.

The irony that he will reveal himself a villain because she has shaped him into a hero is not lost on him.

_You don’t have to face those things alone_. Her words from the Storm Coast, tender and sure, whisper through his mind as they’ve done a thousand times since she uttered them. _Just tell her_. _She’ll understand. She’ll help_ , his mind admonishes.

_No_ , whispers his heart as he stares into his mug. _You see the way she looks at you? You would tear the world asunder to save her. What makes you think she’ll do any less to save you, whether you deserve it or not?_

_She’s a reasonable leader with a keen mind,_ his brain argues. _Surely someone who managed to rope Celeste, Gaspard, and Briala into working_ together _can solve something as simple as saving your man_ and _your ass without destroying the world._

_She let an entire ship of Qunari burn and destroyed the Inquisition’s chance of being the only power in known history to be allied with Qun rather than let a handful of men die._

_Good men! Saving the Chargers was the right choice!_

_And what has the Inquisition lost because of it? We’ll never know._

“…Blackwall?” Catheryn’s voice snaps him from his internal dialogue and he lets out a shaky sigh. _Tell her_ , his heart begs one last time but he can’t. He _can’t_. “You’re brooding.”

“I am not!” he growls in protest, draining the last of his beer. He is, though. He’s absolutely brooding. He glares at the bottom of his cup.

“Hey,” gently fingers touch his chin, subtly tilting his head upwards. “I like brooding,” Catheryn teases from where she’s standing next to him. Maker, he didn’t even notice her get up. “It’s a good look for you – all the stable hands say so. The dark and brooding warrior: separate and untouchable in his fight against evil.” He blushes like a maiden beneath the words and she laughs quietly, a soft sound like chiming bells. Is that how people see him? Maker, he fucking hopes not. “It’s a pretty picture though personally, I prefer your smiles,” she adds and traces his lip with her thumb.

A thread of his thin control snaps at her caress and Blackwall tumbles Catheryn into his lap, her pleased little laugh swallowed by the kiss he presses to her lips. She squirms a little, seeking a more comfortable position, her laughter morphing to a moan as his tongue slides across hers, his hand cradling the back of her head. Maker, she tastes even better than he remembers.

Blackwall pulls back, stopping before the frenzied desire he can feel in his blood can dance its way across his tongue. A soft whimper at the loss of his mouth falls from between her lips as she follows him blindly for a moment, chasing his touch. _Fuck, but this woman could be the death of me_ , he groans softly. He drags his fingers down the side of her neck, tracing the line he aches to follow with his mouth. She inhales sharply and her eyes flutter open beneath the soft caress of his fingers.

“There you are,” she smiles, echoing his previous observation.

“Here I am,” he agrees and smiles as he presses a disgustingly chaste kiss to her lips.

“Are you alright?”

_No._ “Yes,” he lies. “I was just thinking about when we went to the ruin, when we found the badge,” he murmurs, rubbing circles with his thumb over the spot where he marked her. The bruise has long since faded but she shudders beneath his touch, eyes darkening as she stares up at him. Blackwall swallows. Hard. “Everything seemed clear then. Like I could do anything with you at my side. _Anything_. That’s a hard word, you know,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to hers, willing her to understand. “It means a lot.”

“ _You_ mean a lot.” The conviction in her voice is so overwhelming that he almost believes it. Almost. Only the soft crinkle of the report in his pocket as she moves grounds him, reminding him of the truth. She kisses him and it takes his breath away because if her mere _words_ overwhelmed him than he has absolutely no way to describe what her kiss does to him. It is everything he wants to live up to, everything he wants to be embodied in a single moment – a benediction of grace on his last night. “Let’s get out of here,” she breathes against his mouth and his entire body jerks at the desire he hears there.

_A bad plan. You should leave now or you’ll never be able to leave._

_If you’re actually going to leave then what better way to go than this? What would you rather face the gallows with? The memory of her face as you refuse her and walk away? Or the whisper of her skin against yours and the cry of her voice in your ear?_

Blackwall groans, his hands tightening against her flesh. “Yes,” he agrees roughly and kisses her again.


	4. Into a Raging Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

_Just tell him,_ Catheryn’s mind admonishes her as they slip up the stairs to Blackwall’s loft. _You need to tell him. You_ have _to tell him._

It’s hard to think, though, her brain addled by the increasingly desperate kisses he savages her mouth with as they stumble across the rough wood of the floor. The words vanish from her mouth as soon as they appear, stolen by the touch of his hands beneath the hem of tunic. He’s barely touched her and already her skin is crackling with lightening, the swell of magic filling the room like a cool cloud that presses hungrily against them.

She stumbles and his hands catch her, pressing her to him, and her mouth goes dry at the unmistakable length of his need pressed against the soft flesh of her stomach. “Wait,” he growls against her lips as her fingers work at his belt. Catheryn’s not sure but she thinks she swears, or maybe she just whines. Either one would be a perfectly acceptable response. Surely, he can’t be stopping her _now_? If she doesn’t touch him soon she’ll implode. Literally. “You need to know that I’m not worthy of you,” he tells her and she can feel the precision of his word choice like a knife to the gut. “There’s no future for us with me as a Warden,” he continues deliberately, the solemnness of his voice momentarily wiping the haze from her mind.  She can see it in his face: love and fierce, desperate desire caged by something darker, something infinitely sad hiding in his eyes.

Catheryn tips her head and tries to read him, tries to _see_ what he is saying. Is he telling her that he wants to leave the Wardens? Or is the grief there because he’s trying to warn her that he’ll eventually choose his duty over her? He _has_ tried to give her outs before. He has tried, more than once, to push her away. Does he not… No. He wants her, she is sure of that. He loves her, though of that she is slightly less certain because he’s never actually said the words. Not quite.

But then again, neither has she.

“Blackwall… I…” _Just say it!_ She screams at herself. _Just_ tell _him!_ “I’m here for you no matter what comes,” she reassures instead, more bravely than she feels.

He shudders against her, his lips dropping to hers. “Then for now let there be nothing else,” he pleads softly. “No one else. Just you and me.” Catheryn has no other response but to grasp at him, hands fisting in his shirt, and kiss him until her mind is fuzzy and she’s not quite sure she can even remember her own name.

Dimly she’s aware that he’s walking her backwards, his hands guiding her steady and sure across the uneven planks until the back of her knees hit something. Blackwall eases her down and it’s surprisingly soft: a bear hide stretched over a featherbed set on top several bales of hay that had been laid side by side.  Gasping, she clutches at him, legs unconsciously wrapping themselves around his hips as he lays over her, his mouth hot and wet against the column of her throat. After the ease with which he removed her breast band on the Storm Coast she doesn’t expect that the buttons on her tunic will give him any trouble and she’s right, the soft cotton of her top falling to the side as his fingers travel down her front, baring her skin to the worship of his mouth.

“We’re not in a cave this time,” he growls as he pulls away. She stares at him, blinking, trying to gather enough awareness to figure out exactly _what_ he’s talking about. It’s hard though. All she can feel is the ache of her skin, the chill that she can’t fight without the heat of his body pressed against hers. It isn’t until he deliberately hooks his fingers beneath the top of her leggings and smalls and begins to peel them down her legs that she remembers.

_My biggest regret about this is that I can’t do what I’ve really wanted to do to you since the moment I met you. Put my head between your legs and stay there until you can’t even scream my name let alone remember yours._

“ _Maker_ ,” she gasps, all the air leaving her lungs in a violent punch. Her back bows at the mere memory of his words.

Blackwall’s chuckle, dark and pleased, curls over her skin. “Not quite,” he breathes as he sinks to his knees, finally freeing her legs of their covering. “But you certainly might think that by the end.”

She would laugh at this uncharacteristic arrogance if she wasn’t already wound so tight. She’s trembling already, a continuous tremor of desire as he presses soft kisses to the arch of her foot and traces the curve of her ankle with his tongue. It’s not arrogance, she realizes as her eyes flutter shut, unable to take the visual of him kneeling between her legs while his teeth scrape at the tendon at the back of her heel. It’s certainty.

What follows is nothing more than torture – a slow, delicious buildup as he moves up her legs. The drag of his teeth over the curve of her calf, the swirl of his tongue as it delves into the crevice behind her knee, the pressure of his mouth as he sucks marks into the tender flesh of her thigh – it’s all a vivid promise of something that he will perform upon a more delicate, wanting part of her body. By the time his breath ghosts over where she wants him Catheryn’s nothing more than thrashing mess on his bed, her fingers wrapped so tightly in the fur beneath her that her knuckles are white, unable to do anything but beg.

“Please,” she begs as he curls his hands beneath her ass and pulls her to the edge of the bed.

“Please,” she begs as he nips along her hip bone.

“Please,” she begs as presses his mouth to taunt, quivering flesh of her lower belly.

“ _Please,_ ” she all but screams as he swirls his tongue around her navel. He laughs and it’s a dark, beautiful sound that crashes over her. Despite the lust that’s consumed her, twisting her into nothing more than a husk of want beneath the onslaught of his mouth, she can’t help but raise her head enough to look down the line of her body at him. _“Fuck,”_ she whispers, the image of his handsome face resting against the inside of her thigh -  so close that his breath puffs against the slickness of her opening, pupils blown and irises reduced to the thinnest of blue-green slivers as he stares up at her – branding itself into her heart.

“As you wish,” he rumbles and she can’t possibly grip the bear hide more tightly than she already is but she _does_ as his tongue sweeps across her, delving between her folds to trace her with a feather light touch. She’s panting, chest heaving, eyes rolled back in her head as she stares at the rafters above her head and the sliver of moonlight visible out the open window over his bed. She can’t… she can’t possibly… Desperate, high pitched keens claw from her throat as he laps at her gently, deliberately: a cat with a bowl of cream. She begs and pleads, her ragged cries filling the loft but he doesn’t relent. He merely watches from between her legs until the tiny, short flicks of his tongue drive her off the edge.

As soon as she starts to come – _Thank the Maker, thank you, thank you, thank you_ – he locks his mouth around the sensitive, pulsing nub and it’s _too fucking much_. The sudden suction immediately sends her up and over a higher peak. Lightning crackles across her skin, the smell of ozone heavy in the air as things go utterly white behind her eyes, every inch of her body tingling with what he’s doing with sure, drawing strokes of his mouth.

Blackwall grounds her against the whirlwind, thumbs stroking over and over across the inside of her thighs as he eases her through her pleasure, removing his mouth only when her thrashing returns to soft, continual tremors and the cries coming from her mouth die to quiet moans as it starts to tip over that edge from _Oh, yes_ to _too much_. Catheryn stiffens and groans at the sudden loss of warmth, the cool night air, thick with magic, making her shiver as it moves across her arousal slicked folds. She wants to look at him, wants to see the smug look she can _feel_ but she can’t make her eyes open as she lies boneless, her hands still knotted in the fur.

“Oh,” she gasps, back arching as he slips two fingers inside.

“Fuck,” she thinks she hears from between her legs, but she’s not sure. He moves slowly, twisting and moving, rubbing circles against her interior walls with the pad of his fingers. The gentle touch is _just right_ , the intrusion into her body a welcome respite to her clit, though by the soft flicks of his thumb against its base, she judges he’s not done with it. Not yet.

 _Until you can’t even scream my name, let alone remember yours,_ his promise whispers.

Slowly he builds her back up again, stoking fires that she would have thought utterly put out by his earlier attentions until they’re raging inside of her skin, making her twist and press, hips bucking to take him deeper. “Please,” she begs again and can hardly believe it even as it comes out of her mouth. She manages to pry her eyes open, to catch a glimpse of the predatory stare he levels up her body, and then he lowers his mouth to her again. It’s not the deliberate movements of earlier – neither the delicate nor the desperately harsh. He kisses her instead, mouth and tongue moving between her legs like they move against her lips. His fingers push her higher, reaching deeper and crooking at the last joint to reach the spot that has her gasping and crying even as his lips unwind her, uncurling muscles wound tight by his earlier actions. Blackwall murmurs something against her folds, words strung between groans that vibrate in his chest and are entirely lost on her as he drags his thumb through sopping mess she and his mouth have made of her.

Catheryn stiffens slightly as his thumb dips lower, sweeping over the tight pucker of her anus and he pauses, waiting for her to decide as he strokes it delicately, each brush sending fire shooting up her spine. “Yes,” she manages to gasp, knowing, somehow, that he won’t accept anything but a verbal confirmation, even as she squirms against him, trying to find _more_. It burns, not unpleasantly, as he slides his thumb into her, any discomfort stolen away by the way he rolls his tongue leisurely around her as he waits for her to adjust. Even when she does relax Blackwall doesn’t move his thumb. Not yet. He simply lets it rest there inside of her.

“Maker’s… _fuck_!” Catheryn screams as he sucks her clit into his mouth, timing the surge of pleasure to coincide with the flex of his hand. She can feel him, feel the strength that he uses to swing a sword around all day, day after day, concentrated on her, on _gripping_ her. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity- _fuck_ …” she swears, because already she can feel the sunbursts beginning behind her eyes. She is helpless, completely helpless beneath his touch, a slave to the command he has enacted over her flesh and she comes to the drag of his thumb in her ass and the plunge of his fingers inside of her cunt.

It’s when she feels the gentle press of his teeth against her over sensitized clit that everything explodes from white and tumbles into a warm, welcoming darkness.

She blinks, or tries to, but she can’t move her eyelids. Or her arms. Or her legs. Or… anything, for that matter. She can’t really fathom why she’d want to either. There’s hands touching her, gently pulling something from her shoulders and unwinding something from her breasts. She breathes easier when both are gone. She’s floating, heavy and weightless at the same time, the roar of her magic a dim, pleasant hum along her skin and behind her eyes.

“Catheryn?” A deep voice rumbles and she manages a small smile. That voice means home and safety. It means love. She loves that voice. “Catheryn?” That’s her name, isn’t it? The word he’s saying. She likes the way it vibrates around his chest before coming out of his mouth.

“Mmm,” she manages to respond, pressing her cheek into the soft - fur? – that lies beneath her.

“There you are,” the voice tickles along the edge of her ear as a warm body settles in behind her, the heat of his skin absolutely fucking _brilliant_ against her back. “Lost you for a second there. Can’t believe I managed to fuck you senseless without _actually_ fucking you,” he is pleased with himself, so damn smug that she can hardly stand it. It’s well deserved, of course. “You’re just so bloody reactive,” he growls against her neck, “so fucking beautiful as you fall apart. Maker, why weren’t we doing this sooner?” Yes. _Yes._ She can agree with that. Why hadn’t they been doing this sooner? She can feel him hard and throbbing, nestled against her ass and it hardly seems fair. She wants him to feel as good as she does. “Easy, love,” he murmurs, running a hand down her side, quieting her like he would one of the horses she can hear shifting below. “There’s time for that still. Rest for a moment,” he admonishes gently, pressing a kiss to the back of her shoulder. “I believe you mentioned _riding a warden_ earlier – and you’ll need to recover a bit more before you do that.”

Oh. Yes. Recover. She still can’t even open her eyes. So she doesn’t. She just lies in his arms and waits, drifting in and out while he holds her close and lets his fingers run across her flesh.

Catheryn doesn’t know how much time has passes but surely not _too_ much. He’s still stiffer than his actual sword against her ass after all. She blinks, shifting in his arms until she can see his face. “Blackwall…” she breathes, but whatever she might have said is silenced by the kiss he takes from her, a passionate, tender thing like he’s drinking the sweetest of wines from her mouth. She can taste herself on his tongue and it makes her shudder and hook a leg over his hip. He listens to her silent instructions, turning onto his back and pulling her with him. “My turn,” she whispers mischievously.

She’s too tired, too _drained_ , to take him apart like he did her - that will be a task for another day – but she refuses to make love to him _again_ without getting to touch and taste. The first time could be forgiven – awkward cave and all – but to do so this time? She’d never be able to let it go. So Catheryn takes her time and trails kisses along his neck and across his collarbone, nipping several marks in pectorals – an act that makes him swear gruffly, his fingers tangling in her hair. His abs are a work of art – and never cease to amaze her because he hides them so frequently behind armor and clothing – and she pays obeisance  to them with her tongue and hands. She decorates the jut of his hipbones with more bruises, arrows that lead to where he juts, thick and leaking, from a tangle of dark brown curls. Blackwall lets out a strangled cry, his fingers tightening against her scalp as she takes him in her mouth, swirling her tongue around his head and moaning at the wash of pre-cum that spreads across her tongue: bitter and sharp and unmistakably _him_. She groans, almost in relief, at the weight of him in her mouth, at the stretch of her lips and the gentle drag of her teeth against his shaft as she takes him deeper, purring around him.

“Catheryn…” he warns unsteadily.

“Mmm…” she acquiesces to the light tugging on her hair and – after one more bob that has him bumping the back of his throat – she pulls off him with a wet pop. “Next time,” she promises, crawling up his body. Blackwall smiles and Catheryn kisses him until she can feel her chest heave, searching for air. Smiling she wraps her hand around him, squeezing gently as he groans, and guides him between her legs.

“ _Oh...”_ they groan in unison as she sinks onto him, impaling herself inch by delicious inch until he’s sheathed entirely in her heat.

“So good,” Catheryn murmurs. “Maker, you feel so good…” she groans and rocks back and forth, bracing herself on his chest to give her greater leverage.  Their first – and until now, only – time had been wonderful and frantic and glorious but _this_ – Oh, Maker, _this_. She is so full, so… just… “ _Blackwall_ …” his name is a whine, a prayer, a plead.

“I know, love,” he acknowledges from beneath her and his voice is gone, lost in a wreck of lust and emotion. He laces one of his hands through one of hers and holds it to her hip, steadying her as she begins to move. “I’m here,” he whispers, his other hand rising to fondle her breasts. “I’ve got you.” She whimpers as he rolls her nipple between his fingers, pulling and pinching until its rosy and red.

In contrast to the noise she no doubt made earlier the loft is calm now, quiet save for her gasps and his answering groans punctured by the smooth, wet sound of their bodies moving together. Lightning and fire sated, spirit still hangs heavy in the air, pulling the veil thin until she can practically feel the spirits gathering around them: the calm at the center of a storm. Love amidst brutality and chaos.

When Blackwall’s hips begin to stutter, losing the steady beat which is making her writhe and cry above him, he takes their joined hands and brings them to her front. “Come for me,” he groans, guiding her fingers in tight circles atop her clit. “Let me feel you…please…” She pants, slowing to an erratic rocking as she focusses on what he’s using her own fingers to do to her.

The moment he feels her go, her body clenching around him, he plants his feet on the bed and grabs her by the hips, snapping up into the tight, fluttering heat with what she can only describe as blind need. He comes with a shout, fingers tightening to bruising strength, the tendons of his face standing out in stark relief as his release overtakes him.

It is, without a doubt, the most attractive thing she’s ever seen.

They trade soft kisses as they clean up, Catheryn’s eyes growing heavier and heavier with each passing moment – a month of hardship and stress finally catching up to now that the tension has been pleasured from her muscles. She’ll worry about the Inquisition in the morning. She’ll worry about Solas in the morning. Everything can wait until morning.

_Tell him…_

Even that.

 _In the morning_ , she promises herself as she drifts into a dreamless slumber, secure in the arms of the man she loves. _I’ll tell him in the morning._

 

In the morning though, Blackwall is gone and the Warden Constable’s badge is resting beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep breath, everyone, the shit is about to hit the fan.


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the shit hits the fan.

If three days ago you had told Catheryn Treveylan that she would be standing in the prison of Val Royeux, staring through the bars at Gordon Blackwall – who really isn’t Gordon Blackwall at all, but a man named Thom Ranier – she wouldn’t have believed you. She would have called you insane and had you thrown out. Blackwall is one of the most honorable men she’s ever known. She loves him. She knows exactly who he is.

Or she thought she had.

 It’s dark in the depths of the prison - a blessing, really, considering the harshness of the sun that beats down onto the cobbled streets of the city outside. Inside it’s cooler, the quiet dimness only marred by the slight _clink_ of his restraints as he shifts every now and then. She can barely see him sitting there inside the cell, his back pressed to the wall and his head bowed over the chains that bind his hands. He looks smaller here. Broken. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like any of this. Truth be told Catheryn is a heartbeat away from being sick all over her boots – and that’s only if she doesn’t break into tears first.

If she hadn’t been standing in the crowd and staring into his eyes when Blackwall – _Ranier_ – revealed himself for who he is she would have thought this all an elaborate ruse put together by Corypheus to throw her off balance. If she hadn’t been able _see_ and _feel_ that it was him she might have believed him to be a demon – or to at least be possessed by one.

But he’s not and he wasn’t.

Instead she is here, standing in a prison, and quietly praying that this is all a nightmare – that she’s stumbled into some pocket of the Fade in her sleep that just happens to be infested by Despair demons.

Catheryn expects that she’ll have no such luck on that account. This nightmare is entirely waking.

“Black…”she begins, but stops, because that’s not who he is. That’s not his name.

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life,” he explains as she steps from the shadows and into the thin ray of light streaming through the high, narrow window. Her gut clenches, heaving at the idea that of all the things he might say this is what he considered the most important – or at least the thing that she wants to hear the most. Why else would he say it first? “I traded his death. He wanted me for the wardens but there was an ambush. Darkspawn,” he huffs and for the first time he looks towards her, eyes barely flickering in her direction. There is something in the way that he says it though, something…

“It was his badge. In the ruins.” The badge that he had left with her, the badge that is currently pinned to the inside of the front of her armor. She is filled with the sudden urge to burn it. Or cry over it.

“Yes.” Catheryn shuts her eyes and forces herself to breathe in and out to the count of ten.  “He was killed,” the man previously known as Blackwall continues. “I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. But a good man, the man _he_ was, the man _you_ made of me, wouldn’t have let another die in his place.”

 Every word is a knife to the gut – deep, eviscerating wounds that tear her apart.

“So you thought you would just die and disappear – that I wouldn’t look for you?” she cries, clenching her hands so tightly that she can feel her nails cut the palms of her hands. This, almost more than anything else, hurts her. That he clearly thought so little of her or what is between them that he thought that she would just let him vanish. That, regardless of his name, that she would just let him _die._

He sighs wearily. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Catheryn holds back her scream only because she knows, she _knows_ , that if she lets out the grief and anger and _frustration_ that is strangling her that all the guards and Cullen will come running. That the blighted _hour_ that she spent arguing to be allowed down here alone will be completely wasted. “You wanted me to think you left me?” she hisses instead, tears beading at the corner of her eyes. “That you were dead or _worse_?” She would have never stopped hunting for him, never rested until she found him. Of course, without his note, without the crumpled report Leliana’s agents had found she wouldn’t have assumed death. She’d have assumed that Corypheus – or one of his lackeys – had stolen her lover, intending to break him in order to break her. By the time that proved untrue… even if she had ever managed to connect Blackwall and Ranier on her own, what would she have found? A notation of death in a ledger, his life already taken and his ashes already scattered to the wind.

Bile burns at the back of her throat, harsh and gagging. _So close_ , she realizes. She’d been so close to losing him forever. If she hadn’t raised the alarm as soon as she had, if Jim hadn’t found the report on Mornay’s sentence in the pocket of Blackwall’s abandoned coat, if she hadn’t left Skyhold immediately, if she hadn’t ridden so hard and so fast – if all those things hadn’t happened exactly as they _had_ he would be dead right now. There is no doubt in her mind that without her presence in the crowd that the hangman would have strung him up that moment. Fear – that is the emotion that is consuming her, overriding all the others. It’s fear that is squeezing her chest until she can’t breathe, until she can’t feel her heart beating. Fear that drives the cold sweat that’s broken over her body. Mind numbing, soul killing _fear_. She half expects to see the Nightmare perched over her head should she look up, cackling away at its success.

 _Ah, Blackwall. There’s nothing like a Grey Warden… and you are_ nothing _like a Grey Warden._

A chipped headstone, gray and dull, sitting amongst a sea of them, every one of them adorned with the name of someone she cares for. What does Blackwall fear the most? _Himself_. She’d thought it odd, then. Now it simply makes sense.

 Had she been even minutes later and she would have arrived to find nothing but his lifeless body.

 “You’d break my heart and call it better?” she whispers, knees buckling. She doesn’t go down but it’s a close thing.

Finally something she says sparks a response, pulling him to his feet. He rounds on the bars that separate them and they rattle at his closeness at the force that he summons to him. “Don’t you understand?” he snarls harshly. “I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, his _entourage_ , and I lied to my men about what they were doing! When it came to light I _ran._ Those men, _my men_ , paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man! This, _this_ is what I am!” Hate so thick and blinding that she can feel it like a physical presence on her skin and sliding down her throat. He hates himself, she realizes, and he wants her to hate him too. “A murderer, a traitor… a monster.”

He sags against the bars, dropping to his knees as the burst of emotion drains, leaving him as limp and broken as doll. “Wouldn’t you be happier thinking I was a noble man, a Grey Warden, instead of this?” Finally he looks at her, his pale eyes gleaming with unshed tears as he meets her gaze through the bars of his cell. “I would have saved you the pain of learning that all you knew about me was a lie. That you _loved_ a lie.”

Catheryn shuts her eyes at his words. She’d been wrong, earlier. This is the greatest hurt. She has never said the words, not out loud, but he knows. He _knows_ how she feels about him – that she _loves_ him – and still he expects her to let him die, to let him just… go. How could he think that? She can’t stop the tear that slides down her cheek, or the ones that follow it. “There was truth to what we had,” she utters, voice breaking. “At least there was for me. Was any of it real for you?”

He grips the bars of his cell tightly, the whole of his hands white and bloodless. “My lady…” his voice wavers and he clears his throat roughly. “All of it,” he vows fiercely, sadly, as he refuses to meet her gaze. “I lied about who I was, but I never lied about what I feel. I am unworthy of you but that didn’t stop me from loving you.”

Somehow, the confirmation only makes it hurt worse.

* * *

 

 

Cullen takes one look at her tear streaked face and rounds on the masked guards. “Out!” he barks in his Commander’s voice. Most of the guards hop to obedience before the words even register, scurrying out the door like a parade of frightened cockroaches. Only their superior thinks to question Cullen’s order, remembering that this is actually _his_ prison as he hesitates in the doorway.

“My Lord Commander…”

The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, who has never been a Lord in his life and is exceedingly proud of that fact – thank you very much – turns the full weight of his glare on the Lieutenant. Better men than the bumbling Orlesian guard have faltered beneath that glare – entire armies, even. He never stood a chance. “That door is the only entrance to this building. You are welcome to stand outside it and make sure that we don’t run off, but _you will leave us_.” The guard dares one more look at Cullen’s face and decides, quite quickly, that waiting outside sounds like a splendid idea.

“Right. Of course. My Lord.” He bows to the Commander, missing the way Cullen’s lip curls into a snarl of distaste at the form of address, and flees on the heels of his underlings.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen’s voice is soft and pierces through the fog that Catheryn is drowning in. She doesn’t remember leaving Blackwa – _Rainier_ – but clearly she must have. She can’t… she can’t… she stumbles, catching herself against the desk in the center of the room. Tired. She’s so fucking tired. Dizzy. Hungry. She doesn’t remember eating today. Probably not a good thing. Cullen’s hand curls under her elbow. “Are you alright?”

Is she alright? No. No, she’s not but she’s the Inquisitor so she’ll have to be alright. She has to be fine no matter what is happening. She had to hold it together.  “No” she admits, sinking into the chair Cullen steers her to.

“Did he hurt you?”

Catheryn’s eyes pop open at the ferocity in her Commander’s voice.  “No. Well, not physically.” She tries to smile and fails horribly.

“I’m sorry. I know what he meant to you.” Cullen’s soft apology sends a fresh flood of tears streaming unchecked down her face but she is thankful for his words, for his acknowledgment, and she squeezes his arm gently. “I have Leliana’s report on Thom Rainier. It just arrived.” Catheryn stares blankly at the sheet of paper that he holds out to her, its edges still curled from being shoved in a cylinder attached to a raven’s leg.

The longer she stares at it the hotter she can feel her blood boil. _The edges were still curled_. It had _just_ arrived. Ravens were fast but they weren’t _that_ fast. Cullen had only just sent off a raven informing Skyhold what had happened little more than an hour ago. But here, in her lap, was a report on _Thom Fucking Rainier_. “Let me guess,” Catheryn bites out through clenched teeth. “Our Spymaster had this _all along_?”

They are going to have a long talk when Catheryn gets back to Skyhold – Spymaster to Inquisitor. A loud, messy talk. Likely involving magic and arrows. Maybe even knives.

Cullen’s face pales at her tone but he doesn’t look away. The set of his jaw, the thin line of his mouth – he’s not pleased with Leliana either. Still, his voice is pitched to be soothing as he says, “It would have been difficult for anyone,” – ie: anyone not Leliana – “to connect Blackwall to Rainier. And even Leliana has something of a blindspot when it comes to wardens.” The Commander sighs and Catheryn lets the report flutter from her fingertips.

“Summarize it for me,” she instructs wearily. She’s too tired, too heartsick, to read it. The words won’t stop swimming on the paper.

“It appears our friend used to be a respected captain in the Imperial Orlesian Army,” Cullen begins after a long pause. It is clear that he is… struggling. “Before the war he was turned. He was paid to assassinate a staunch supporter of Celene’s – an influential General…”

“…Lord Callier,” Catheryn murmurs under her breath, remembering Black – _Rainier’s_ , damnit – words.

Cullen nods. “He and his men attacked Callier and his… _entourage_ … enroute from their villa. There were no survivors.”

“Why do you say it like that?” she wonders, tilting her head to look up into the Commander’s amber gaze. Here in the dim office, lit only by sparse sunlight and a handful of candles, his eyes gleam like molten gold.

“… like what?” he inquires, forehead creasing in puzzlement.

“ _Entourage_ ,” she repeats, mimicking his intonation. “Blac – _fuck it_ – Rainier did it too.”

Cullen stares at the paper he’s still clasping in one hand. The other hand has ceased rubbing at his neck and is instead clenching it so tightly Catheryn momentarily fears that he might break his own neck. He exhales shakily and then he speaks. “Lord Callier was traveling with his family. His wife and children were among his party.” The Commander looks away. “No survivors,” he repeats.

Catheryn stares, hearing the words but not understanding them.

Until she does.

“No,” she breathes, feeling the blood drain from his face. “He wouldn’t… he’d…” She snatches the report back from Cullen’s hands, eyes scanning it, trying to make sense of the jumble of letters. “No!” She’s out of the chair and moving, running before Cullen can stop her.

“Inquisitor!”

 _Rainier_ has returned to sitting, his back straight as he leans against the wall. A pose of _endurance_.

“Children!” Catheryn screams, slamming the report into the bars. “You killed _children!_ Innocent, defenseless, CHILDREN! _”_ The roar of her blood is deafening. She can feel it, bursting behind her skin, begging, pleading, a force that must be let loose.

 “Do you think that I do not regret it every day? That I do not hate myself _every single fucking minute_?” he cries back, rising to meet her attack. “I know what I did. I was _there!_ ” The air around them breaks, the clap of lightning striking rattling the stones beneath their feet. Rainier doesn't flinch. Instead, he takes a step forward, his entire body slumping. “They weren’t supposed to be there,” he continues, “Callier was supposed to be alone with a few of his men.” Shaking his head, Rainier leans towards her, arms braced on the bars, ignoring the flames that lick across her skin and leap towards his clothing. “War is unfair. The sky is blue,” he sighs and turns his gaze away. “By the time I realized they were there it was too late. I couldn’t save them.”

“Catheryn!”

“Children!” she repeats, slamming her hands into the bars again.

She can’t help it. She can’t stop it. Catheryn screams. She throws her head back and howls like the entire world is breaking – and maybe it is. Maybe this is where it all ends. In fire and blood and heartbreak.

There are hands touching her, pulling her away from the cell and she screams again, spirit ripping out of her in a wave that hits in a concussive force that makes everything around her move. Dust and mortar rain down on her head but she can’t feel it. She suddenly can’t feel anything anymore.

That should give her pause, but it doesn’t.

Her legs buckle beneath her and someone catches her.

“Catheryn? Catheryn? Answer me, damn you,” someone is shaking her. She blinks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” the voice is repeating, apologizing over and over. “I had to get you away. You were going to kill him. I couldn’t let you… you’d never forgive yourself. Catheryn? Please… Maker’s breath, what did I do?”

“Cullen…?” She blinks again, struggling to bring the face above hers into focus. Dimly she’s aware of a pounding, like someone is banging against the door. Voices, shouting…

“My Lord, what is going here?”

“Shite! Fuck! Bloody mages!”

“My Lord…”

“Curly? Everything okay in there?”

 “ _Maker’s breath -_ GET THE FUCK OUT!”

 Silence.

The door slams.

Catheryn blinks. “…what?"

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen breathes, slumping over her in relief. She’s… she’s lying across his lap, cradled in his arms and they’re… they’re sitting on the prison floor. In the office, not the cells. “I thought I’d…”

 She blinks again. She’s sore. Everywhere. Like Cassandra and Bull have used her as a practice dummy. And she can’t… she can’t breathe. Well, she _can_ , but there’s a catch in her chest – a tightness, an _emptiness_. It’s oddly familiar. “Did you…” her voice cracks and she forces herself to take a deep breath and tries again. “Did you _smite_ me?”

Cullen makes a strangled noise against her hair – though whether it’s a sob or a peal of laughter she’s not sure. Maybe both. “I… no. Yes. Kind of,” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Without the lyrium it doesn’t really work but it was… it was enough to get you off of him.”

Catheryn blinks. It seems like that is all she does now. Blink. “Shit!” She tries to bolt upright as his words sink in. Immediately the world around her tilts, what little focus she’s regained vanishing as everything blurs before her gaze.

“Easy. _Easy_!” Cullen barks, hauling her back into his lap seconds before she manages to fall flat on her face. “You need to rest for a minute. It was only the shadows of a true smiting but still, you could…”

“ _Screw. Me_ ,” she mutters, clenching her eyes shut against the waves of nausea. “I’ll be fine.”  In fact, she can already feel her mana restoring itself in a steady trickle. Cullen though – he has been doing so _well_. His withdrawals have become much more manageable since his breakdown after Halamshiral. Largely because now she makes sure he gets help and doesn't just assume that he has it taken care of. Potions and healing magic can't take away withdrawal but they go a long way to making it manageable. If she’s hurt his progress, hurt _him_ … Guilt wars with fury until her gut is nothing but a roiling mess. “Why did you do that?” she screeches – or tries to. She’s too tired for it to be anything but a weary question. “You could have… We don’t know how…” she shakes her head, growling in frustration. “Are you alright?” she finally spits out. “Cullen?”

She forces her eyes open and flinches as the thin light hits her eyes. Maker but that _hurts_. Above her Cullen’s face swims into focus and he’s pale, his lips set in a thin line, but otherwise seems to be okay. “I’m fine,” he reassures gruffly, obviously taken aback by her question.

“I can feel you shaking.”

Cullen snorts. “I’m not the only one,” he replies. “But I am well enough. The headache may bloody well try to murder me later but right now it isn’t anything I can’t handle.” The scarred corner of his lip twitches, as if he wants to smile reassuringly but can’t actually bring himself to do so. “You… you were just _so angry_ …” he murmurs as if that explains everything.

 _Were?_ she snarls inwardly. _Am. I_ am _so angry…_

And just like that it _does_ explain everything.

 Catheryn inhales sharply, her gaze dropping to her hands. Leliana’s report is still in her fingers, the paper crumpled and smeared with dirt and blood, her blood, no doubt from the series of scrapes that adorn her hand. Those must have happened when she slammed the report against the cell bars. She doesn’t remember feeling any pain. She doesn’t remember anything but the anger – the _rage_. “Maker,” she exhales, eyes darting back up to Cullen’s. “I’m… I can’t believe I… I think I’m going to be sick.”

She scrambles from his lap and the movement doesn’t help, at all, but she manages to sit up enough to vomit into the vase that he shoves under her face, her entire body heaving. So angry. She had been so, so unbelievably angry. So consumed by it. It was a miracle that a Rage demon hadn’t burst through the veil and slipped into her skin. She certainly wouldn't have stopped it. She would have welcomed it. There had been nothing, no one, to stop it. No one except an ex-Templar bent on shaking every shadow of lyrium from his system.

“Thank you,” Catheryn breathes and she doesn’t mean for the way he wipes her hair from her face or for the fact that he helps her back into the chair before crouching before her.

“You are the strongest person I know,” Cullen tells her softly. Carefully he reaches out and loosens the grip of her fingers, pulling the report from them. With its loss some of the incredible anger fades and she watches, detached, as Cullen flings it onto the desk as if it burns him. “You have so much weight on your shoulders and you do everything that we ask of you – and more. You never stop giving, never stop caring. That I am here right now, at all, is a testament to that. Do not, for _one second_ , believe that I think you weak or at fault.”

“But I could have…” She could have been taken over by a demon. She could have destroyed the prison, the city. She, who has again and again championed the mages and defended their right to exist  _without_ a babysitter watching them - she would have let her fury consume her and destroyed the Inquisition in a single moment.

“You didn’t.” Catheryn doesn’t think she has ever seen the Commander so calm, so sure. If there is any man that deserves to fear mages, to fear exactly what she might have done in her weakness it is this man - a man who has been tortured by demons; a man who has struggled for so long to see mages as something more than abominations waiting to happen. The faith she can see in his eyes takes her breath away. She could have lost herself, quite easily, and still he believes in her. “You have seen me at my lowest: broken and filled with despair. I would be a poor friend indeed if I did not support you as you supported me, if I did not offer you the same chance at redemption.”  Catheryn nods, not trusting herself to speak quite yet, and hopes that the gentle touch of her burned and bloodied fingertips to cool metal of his armor is enough to convey all the things she cannot say.

“What do we do now?” she finally asks.

Cullen sighs. “Blackwall – _Rainier_ – has accepted his fate. You don’t have to. If he’s released to us you may pass judgement on him yourself.”

Catheryn can feel what little blood is left in her face quickly leave at such a thought. Judging _him_ , knowing what they had done together, knowing what he was guilty of. Her stomach heaves unpleasantly. “If it were up to you what would happen?” she asks quickly.

The Commander’s face hardens into something almost unrecognizable. It is stern and harsh and… ugly. _This_ , she does not doubt, is the face he used in Kirkwall. Dark and unforgiving. “What he did to the men under his command is unacceptable,” he snaps. “He betrayed their trust. He betrayed _ours_. I despise him for it!” Catheryn flinches away from the pain, the _anger_ , in his voice. It isn’t just her companion, her _lover_ that waits in the nearby cell. He was their comrade, their confidant… he had been Cullen’s friend. She isn’t the only one who has had their world ripped out from underneath them. Cullen sighs and just like that the hardness runs from his face, leaving behind the visage she is more familiar with – if slightly more tired and drained.  “And yet,” he continues more gently, “he fought as a Warden. Joined the Inquisition and gave his _blood_ for our cause. How many times have you – have your companions, people that you care for and love – walked away from battle alive, even unscathed, because  he offered up his body and his blood in their place?”

 Catheryn doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The incident with the darkspawn over a month ago was not an exception or one-time incident. The injuries had been more severe, the gap between life and death more narrow than typical but, at its core, it had just been another time in a long line of incidents when Black – _Rainier_ – had put himself in harm’s way to save someone else. He has always been the first to step into trouble, the first to run to help.

“The moment he shakes off his past he turns around and owns up to it,” Cullen shakes his head but there is something that sounds suspiciously like respect mixed in with muted anger and sorrow.

“Why?” Catheryn whispers, tears hot against her shock chilled skin.

The smile that pulls at Cullen’s lips is truly a sad one. “Why do you think?” he asks softly. “He did it for you. You have given him purpose. Returned him his honor. He did it because he wishes that he was a man worthy of you. And as such, I think you are the only one that has any authority to pass judgement on him.”

Her grip tightens on the arms of the chair. “I don’t… I… I don’t think I can,” she manages to gasp out, struggling to get enough air through the panic suddenly clawing at her throat. “Children, Cullen, he…”

“None of us are saints, Catheryn.” The use of her name is like a slap, bracing and grounding amidst the wild beating of her heart.  “Look at your inner circle – all of us have sins, _guilts_ , that we would rather not see the light of day.” This is true. She knows this. She _knows_ it. A spirit who tried to clean house in the White Spire? A Ben-Hassarath mercenary? The veritable queen of the Orlesian underworld? They all have blood on their hands, blood that they regret shedding. No doubt they will all be forced to shed more – perhaps some that could even be termed _innocent_ – before the end of all of this. “You won’t be alone,” he adds reassuringly. “We’ll all be there for you. I know it will be difficult but…”

 “I’m pregnant.”

It’s a relief to say it out loud. It makes it more real, somehow, just like how hearing Cole confirm it made into something more than just sleep deprived wonderings.

Cullen stares, stunned into utter silence for several minutes. When he finally does speak it takes him at least a half dozen tries to get out a simple, “You’re…?” Catheryn nods wearily at the question. “And Rainier, he’s the…?”

“Yes.”

The look on Cullen’s face would have been comical under any other circumstances. As it is she can’t help but wonder if she’s going to have to revive the Commander when he falls over in a dead faint. The man has made it through demons, torture, and abominations only to be laid low by an unexpected pregnancy. One that he isn’t even involved in, no less. It seems like some sort of bad joke.

“ _Maker’s breath_ …” he swears softly and there’s so much _feeling_ in those two words that it sends a fresh flood of tears down Catheryn’s cheeks. Wordlessly Cullen gathers her into his arms and, like a frightened child, she clings to him.

 “I don’t… I don’t think I can do it,” she cries into the soft fur of his coat. Talking about passing judgement. Mostly. “How can I sit up there on that throne and judge him when…?” She chokes on the words, dissolving into ugly, bone-shaking sobs. Cullen holds her as gently as he is able, obviously trying to avoid hurting her with the ridges of his armor. She doesn’t care. She just cries until there is nothing left, until she is limp against his shoulder, the fur lining of his coat soaked beneath her face.

“We’ll get him released to us,” Cullen promises quietly and she does not doubt him. There’s a thread of iron she can hear in his voice that means that he will be unstoppable. He will get… _him_ … from the prison even if Cullen has to break him out with a contingent of men. “We’ll bring him back to Skyhold.”

“And then what?” she asks tonelessly.

“You pardon him.”

Catheryn snorts, or tries to. “Simple as that?” she asks bitterly.

Cullen presses his lips softly to the side of her head. “No,” he states gently, “but it’s a place to start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did mention angst, right?
> 
> Poor bastards.


	6. This is Not a Fairy Tale

_Pregnant._

 Catheryn Trevelyan: Herald of Andraste and the leader of the Inquisition – arguably the most important woman in all of Thedas - is pregnant. The father of her child is her secret – well, secret outside of Skyhold – lover who is currently imprisoned for the assassination of an Orlesian General and brutal murder of his entire family – a crime which he has run from for nearly a decade, a significant portion of that time spent masquerading as a Grey Warden in an effort to atone for his crimes. It sounds absurd and fantastical even in his head, like it should be in one of Varric’s stories.

Not that he’s read any of them. Publically.

 Cullen lets out an unsteady sigh and, rubbing the back of his neck, stares at the woman sleeping on the bed. _His_ bed, technically, though Maker knows he wouldn’t have actually used it. His head is pounding, sharp stabbing pains that leave his stomach lurching and his hands shaking. If he sleeps tonight there will be nightmares – the ones that leave him screaming until his throat is raw. So he won’t sleep. Which is why the Inquisitor is curled up in his bed. Well, that, and the fact that she’d taken one look at Sera giggling drunkenly on the Orlesian monstrosity that adorned the main bedchamber and turned to him with such a look of misery that he couldn’t do anything but usher her away to somewhere more quiet, more private.

She seems so small lying there. In his mind he frequently forgets that she barely comes up to his shoulder in real life. She’s so bright, so vibrant and forceful that she might as well be a giant. But here she is, lying on his fed with her tear stained face buried in the plain pillow with one hand fisted tensely in the sheets and the other clasped between his hands.

_Don’t leave me_ , she’d begged.

_I won’t,_ he’d promised.

He doesn’t like how pale she is, the normal creamy blush of her skin stark white against the rippling auburn of her hair. He doesn’t like that she didn’t eat anything, though to be fair he hadn’t been able to eat anything either. Both of them had taken one look at the platter of food brought up from the kitchens and turned an interesting shade of green. Cullen is fine with being hungry. After all it’s better than puking until his insides bleed. But she’ll pay for it, in the morning. He saw it often enough in Kirkwall – in Kinloch too, if he’s being honest. The nausea that plagued a pregnant woman was what usually gave her away. In Kirkwall, if everyone was lucky, he’d have been the one that noticed first and… taken care of things before the evidence of a – likely – mage and Templar union was brought to Meredith’s attention.

If Meredith had noticed first…

Cullen shudders, his grip tightening on Catheryn’s hand.

_Does he know?_ ” he’d asked her as she tried to tidy her appearance to something that wouldn’t cause a scandal.

  _No,”_ she’d replied. “ _No one does, except for Cole. And now you. I didn’t get a chance to tell him before...”_ she’d waved her hand at the prison around her. Silently he had wondered if all of this would have happened if Blac – _Rainier_ – had known what he was leaving behind, if the knowledge of his child in the Inquisitor’s womb would have tipped the scales enough to counter his honor.

“She wonders that too,” Cole’s quiet voice fills the room and Cullen jumps in his chair. “Damp palms, flutters in her gut – _What if he’s angry?_ Back straight, teeth gritted, just get it over with.” Cole shakes his head slightly. “Fingers clawing against the fur, back bowing, can’t catch her breath. The brush of his beard against the inside of her leg makes her forget.” Cullen blushes crimson at the words falling gently from the young man’s lips. “He was gone before she could form the words.”

“Maker’s breath, Cole, what have we told you about just appearing?” he mutters, casting a glance at the spirit boy as he settles on the edge of the bed. More boy now than spirit, if Solas and Varric are to be believed.

“I didn’t just appear,” Cole corrected, clearly offended as he looks up from spreading a thin blanket over Catheryn’s shoulders. “I _knocked_. You were just too far away to hear me. Herbs, fresh and sharp in the air as they brew.  Tears in the dark as she drinks it down. _Don’t let it happen again_. They flinched at your voice but you didn’t mean it. You were only trying to protect them. You wanted to help.”

“Key word being _try_ ,” Cullen scoffs bitterly. “I did far too little, far too late.”

“Not this time,” Cole murmurs, reading the Commander’s thoughts. “Never again.”

“No,” Cullen agrees. “Never again.” He goes back to rubbing at her hand gently, pushing and massaging at the tightened tendons until he feels the muscles begin to relax beneath his touch. “I know… she has mentioned that it’s difficult for you to hear her, like you hear the rest of us. But can you…How is she doing?” he asks, knowing Cole is probably his only opportunity for a completely truthful response. Cole tips his head and stares at the Inquisitor, his watery blue eyes scarcely visible beneath the brim of his ridiculously floppy hat and the cascade of white-blonde hair.

“Despair and rage, so loud I can hear them over her brightness. Thick and choking, clawing in her throat, pressure on her chest, fire in her eyes. Trying to control them to force them back – _Can’t attract a demon_. They circle while she sleeps, looking for a way in. I won’t let _them_ ,” Cole snarls, shifting uneasily, his fingers hovering over the curve of her ankle. Cullen’s eyes widen at the sudden vehemence but he doesn’t fault the motivation or the vow. He is, after all, the man who attempted to smite her earlier, judging that she would rather be cut off than overrun. “The fear is the strongest,” the spirit continues after a moment. “She’s used to the weight of it, the way it feels in her mouth, but this is different. Ice in her heart, in her lungs. Can’t hide. Can’t fight. Can’t run.  Crushing, suffocating. She can’t breathe. She’s not used to being afraid for herself,” he explains gently, folding his hands in his lap. “Afraid for herself. Afraid for the spark that flutters within her. Afraid for Solas. Afraid for _him_. She was nearly too late.”

_We did cut it bloody close_ , Cullen muses to himself. Out loud though he asks something he’s been meaning to ask for days. “What happened to Solas?”

“He left.”

“Surely he did not just _leave_?” Cullen’s view on the apostate is… confused at best. There is something about him that has always made the ex-Templar’s skin crawl and yet the man has been nothing but useful and loyal to the Inquisition. Even in the beginning, when Cassandra had him thrown in a cell and pointed her sword at him.

“They hurt his friend,” Cole says simply. “They twisted her into a demon, forced her to kill. He had to get away. I told her he would be back but she doesn’t believe me. A cry that rips the sky, tears on her shoulder – she would understand if he doesn’t come back. She wanted to kill them too.”

Cullen stifles the huff of frustration. Barely. He’d have to ask Cassandra for the full story when they got back. Or Catheryn, but he is wary of hurting her.

“The fear is less, now, than it was earlier. You beat it back, make it better. Strong and solid, unbending as you hold her. Sweet and musky against her nose, peppermint and elfroot mean _safety_ and _home._ You did not leave her to die alone in the snow. You will not abandon her now.” Well aware that his cheeks are a brilliant shade of pink, Cullen looks away, discomforted by Cole’s words. Of course he wont abandon her. The very idea of it is… ridiculous. Impossible. The striking woman lying his bed has commanded his loyalty since the very first time they spoke face to face – though he’s never told her that – and has done nothing but earn it over and over since then. It would be the gravest of betrayals, both as her Commander and as her friend, to leave her now.

“She doesn’t need me,” he finally whispers, setting her hand gently upon the bed. She might think that she does, but she doesn’t. She’s stared down an archdemon and not flinched. There’s not much he can do to add to that. “She’s the strongest person I know.”

The spirit boy laughs softly and pulls his knees up to his chin. His eyes gleam brightly as he stares at the Commander, pleased. “She says the same thing of you.”

 

* * *

 

 Varric looks up as Cullen shuts the door softly behind him. “How is she?” he asks, putting his quill down and giving the Commander his full attention. Cullen fidgets beneath the scrutiny. The dwarf is no Leliana or the Iron Bull, both of whom are skilled enough spies to read everything he thinks or does in the lines of his face. Still, he’s accomplished enough. Especially when those he cares about are on the line. And he’s looked out for Catheryn since the day they met. At first, Cullen thinks, largely to piss Cassandra off and later because he loves her.

And Cullen has always been bloody terrible at the Game, in any incarnation.

But for Catheryn he will manage.

“Exhausted,” Cullen replies honestly, thinking of the dark shadows beneath the Inquisitor’s eyes. “She’s been pushing hard, probably too hard, since Adamant. She’s in shock.” He’s seen it often enough. Maker, he’s been there himself. She’s broken, bleeding as sure as any soldier stumbling off the battlefield except that these aren’t wounds that can’t be healed with a potion or a talented mage. At this point all he can do is try to ensure that she rests, that she eats, and pray she recovers.

Varric grunts. “Not exactly surprising. Poor Kitten,” the dwarf scowls and looks away, his fingers tapping against Bianca’s smooth, polished surface. “What was he thinking?” he asks and despite the venom in the question Cullen can tell it is honestly meant.

“He was thinking that we – that _Catheryn_ – would just let him go. That she’d read the note and just let him… vanish.” _Die._ Wearily, he sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. Sparing the table, still bearing enough food for two people – Varric must have forced Sera to leave some – he briefly entertains the idea of _trying_ to eat something. The smell of roast boar wafting across the room cures him of that, his stomach clenching painfully at the scent. _Not happening, Rutherford_.

 An unpleasant bark of laughter roars from between Varric’s lips. “He… he thought that she would do that? He has actually _met_ Catheryn, right? Mage? Smokin’ good looks? The _Herald of Andraste_? Squared off with an archdemon all on her lonesome because she refused to lead any of her friends into certain death?” Cullen’s own bewilderment that Rainier had so seriously underestimated Catheryn’s response is clear on his face. The man is – was? – a good fighter, one with a clear head on his shoulders. Yet this had been a serious tactical blunder on his part.

  _Maybe he hoped to be dead before she caught up to him?_ He wonders silently as Varric swears colorfully. Cullen shudders at that thought. Today had been bad enough with Catheryn there to save Rainier, even if their confrontation had ended… badly. If she had arrived to the sight of him dangling from the gallows – it wouldn’t have mattered that he was a traitor and murderer. She would have never found out until it was too late – or perhaps never. Catheryn is a fair, compassionate woman who does her best to find the balance of justice and mercy but Cullen has no doubt that if she had walked into the city square and found Rainier hanging lifeless from the gallows that she would have leveled the entire city without thought.

When it comes to protecting those she loved she is unyielding and unmerciful: passionate and combustible where Madame de Fer is cold and detached. And that’s when she’s not… with child.

“…Curly?” Varric’s annoying nickname snaps him from his thoughts and Cullen blinks, returning his focus to the dwarf.

“Yes?”

“How was it?” Varric doesn’t need to expand. Cullen knows exactly what he means.

“Alright. At first,” he murmurs, looking out the window as his fingers unconsciously clench and unclench around his sword pommel. “It went as well as could be expected. And then she saw the report.” He winces at the memory, both men swiveling to glance at the crumpled sheet of paper lying next to Bianca on the desk, its wrinkled surface still marred by blood and ash.

“And that’s what…?”

“Yes.” Cullen says shortly, cutting Varric off. He won’t speak of the Inquisitor’s near possession. Not here. Possibly not anywhere.

“Oh, Kitten,” Varric whispers, leaning back in his chair. The two men are silent for some time, the quiet of the main suite occasionally punctuated with a sharp, gurgling snore from the large bed on the other side. Sera, it appears, has dealt with her friend’s deception and betrayal by drinking until she passed out. “The Kid still with her?”

 Cullen nods tiredly. He can feel the headache behind his eyes now: a thousand little axes chipping away at his eye sockets. He needs to move before it completely disables him. “She shouldn’t be alone and I need to go out. I won’t be gone long,” he defends, noting Varric’s disproving stare. “I’m just getting something for the In… for _Catheryn_.” The amendment, more than anything, melts the glare from the dwarf’s face. “Will anything be open at this hour?” Cullen asks, sparing another glance at the window and the inky night sky that lay beyond it.

Varric chuckles humorlessly. “It’s Val Royeux, Curly. Most of the shops don’t close. You’d be surprised how many members of the nobility _need_ things in the middle of the night.”

Cullen shakes his head. Maker, he hates Orlais but for once, just right now, he is grateful for the sense of entitlement that its gentry has made commonplace.

When he returns three-quarters of an hour later, Varric raises his eyebrows at the package Cullen holds in his hands but doesn’t ask. Probably because he can read Cullen’s complete unwillingness to tell him on the Commander’s tired, pain-lined face. He doesn't have the finesse to play the Game but that doesn't mean that he can't keep secrets. And he will take Catheryn’s to the grave.

“Is Cole still with her?”

“Of course.”

Cullen can feel  Varric’s eyes on him, questioning, analyzing, as he pauses at the table and selects a small plate and, after inspection confirms that Sera has consumed both bottles of wine,  he fills a glass with water from the carafe sitting untouched at the back of the tray. A pause and then he fills a second for himself, which he downs quickly. It sits uneasily in his stomach but he refills the glass and drains it anyway. It’s likely that he’ll throw most of it up later but dehydration is worse than spending a few moments hunched over a basin. “Can I beg the use of a quill and a piece of paper?” he asks, balancing the cup and package on the plate.

“Leaving her a note, Curly? Classic. Didn’t take you for the love letter type.”

Ignoring the heat in his cheeks Cullen scowls, unwilling to admit how close the dwarf’s words hit. “You’re an ass,” he tells Varric instead and summons his _Commander_ look. “Paper and quill?”

“Shit. You’re serious?” Varric’s eyebrows hike nearly to his hair line. “You’re not going to stay with her?”

He chokes on his own tongue, his cheeks burning a brilliant, blinding scarlet. _“_ I… I… _What_?” he manages to squeak out. “Why would…?”

“Huh. So you two really were playing chess all those late nights?” Varric looks disappointed – something that is soon explained by a sorrowful. “Dammit, I owe Bull ten sovereigns.”

Cullen’s eyes twitch. He should express some sort of… outrage that Varric has been taking bets on what he and the Inquisitor had been doing but he is too tired. And, truthfully, making and taking bets is what Varric does. “What did you think we were doing?” Cullen asks instead.  Varric pales a little and looks away.

“Well, Kitten doesn’t like sleeping alone… woah, woah, woah!” the dwarf nearly shouts scrambling over the desk as Cullen lunges for him, the tension of the day finally making him snap. Friend or not, no one gets to insinuate that the Inquisitor is a… whore. “Not like that! Not like that! Andraste’s tits, Curly – give me a second to explain!”

“Explain.” He growls out as he uses the bulk of his form to cage the dwarf against the wall, careful to keep him away from his beloved Bianca. “Now.”

“Shit, you really don’t know…” Varric breathes. “And here I was thinking it was the worst kept secret in Skyhold.”

“Varric, you are my friend, so I’m going to give you the courtesy of telling you that it has been a very long day and my head is bloody killing me. _I. am. Out. Of. Patience_.”

“Nightmares. Curly. _Nightmares_ ,” Varric huffs a little frantically. “Catheryn – she was little more than a kid when the Conclave went to shit and because of that _thing_ on her hand we tossed her to the wolves. She’d never really been in battle before and, outside of her own harrowing, never had to face a demon! And suddenly she is expected to fight, to kill, to close rifts, confront abominations… and make all the tough choices so that you – _we_ – didn’t have to. So of course she has nightmares. But she’s tough, you know?” Cullen nods. He knows. “So she shook them off and just kept moving. And then Redcliffe happened. Battle? Death? Torture? Those are things I can understand – that I can wrap my head around. But not Redcliffe. She’s tried to explain it but… only Dorian gets it. Sometimes though, the things they say…” the dwarf shivers. “They make me glad that I can’t dream.”

“So Catheryn has nightmares,” Cullen repeats flatly, ignoring the spark of jealousy at the reminder that there are those out there that are fortunate enough to not dream. “What does that have to do with you calling her a whore?”

“I never called her a whore,”Varric growls, spitting the word with the distaste that it deserves. “I said that she didn’t like to sleep alone. _Sleep_ , Curly. Not have sex. Catheryn rarely sleeps alone. It started after Redcliffe, with Dorian. It’s the only way either one of them could sleep.  And Bull’s such a giver…” the dwarf shrugs. “At this point it’s just a big puppy pile.  We sleep, together. Actual sleep. It gives us something to hold onto when our hands are bathed in blood day after day, when all you can taste is demons coating the back of your tongue.”

 Cullen steps backwards, letting his arms slump to his sides. The action releases Varric who cautiously moves forward. “So when you asked…” he blushes, unable to complete the sentence.

Varric shuffled back to his chair and sank into wearily, rifling through the chaos of papers on the table next to him. “… I assumed that you two had a similar arrangement. Your nightmares are less when you’ve been with her,” he notes and it’s a simple statement of fact. Cullen flinches at the knowledge that Varric knows this weakness of his. Still, he’s right. The nightmares are always less, nearly nonexistent, after time spent with the Inquisitor. Usually playing chess.  Sometimes she reads _Hard in Hightown_ and once – or twice – they may have both descended into demeaning bouts of giggling while trying to read the chapter of _Swords and Shields_ that Cassandra had lent her. Not that he’s about to tell Varric that, though.  “The Kid tries to help but… he’s shit at cuddling,” Varric finishes, amused. Cullen can’t stop the snort of laughter that bursts from his mouth.

 “I imagine,” he murmurs. It takes him a moment to realize that Varric is holding a piece of paper and a quill in his direction and he takes them, noting the fine tremor that transfers from his hand to the paper. “Will you… sleep with her?” he inquires as he adds both items to the small stack of things that he’ll carry into the bedroom.

“Would you let me?” Varric asks seriously.

Cullen blinks, his body jerking at the dwarf’s words.  Would he? _It’s not really up to you to decide who sleeps with the Inquisitor,_ he tells himself.  _She’s no doubt used to Varric being in her bed. You’ll just… give her this in the morning. It’s not important. And it’s not up to you._

He’s lying to himself.

“No,” he finally mutters, turning away. Not today.

Varric opens his mouth and then shuts it, apparently thinking better of whatever it is he had been about to say. “Send the Kid out. I’ll have him pop over to the prison and keep an eye on things until the Empress’ orders come through.”

“You really think she’ll just release him to us?”

“I do. Catheryn’s the only reason that she’s still alive, let alone ruling Orlais. The release of a traitor is a simple enough thing to do and it will ease some of the debt that she owes.” The dwarf resettles Bianca and goes back to his writing. “Try and get some rest Curly. I’m sure tomorrow is going to be a long-ass day too.”

Cullen leaves the paper and quill on the table.

 

* * *

 

“You came back.” Cullen doesn’t even deign to respond to the statement because it is absurd. Of course he came back. He’d said that he would. “She didn’t like it when you left.”

That startles a response from him, jerking his head up as he carefully arranges the simple pieces of shortbread on the plate. “She woke up?”

Cole shakes his head. “No. But she felt you leave. It didn’t smell like home anymore.” He glances up at Cullen from under his hat. “She didn’t want to wake up after that.”

The Commander swallows uneasily and gently places the plate – its surface arranged with several simple rectangles of shortbread surrounding a small pile of candied ginger – on the table near the bed. The glass of water joins it, close enough to grab but far enough away that flailing arms aren’t likely to knock it over. The ginger had been easy enough to find, a fact that surprised him given its status as a luxury import item. The simple shortbread, on the other hand, had been damned near impossible to find. Though, this really shouldn’t have been a surprise. He is in _Orlais,_ after all. Here in Val Royeux he now has no doubt that he could go out at all hours of the day and find silks and riches beyond imagining available in every shop but Maker forbid he try to find something as simple as a whetstone or length of good, serviceable rope – the kind made for work and _not_ the thin, silken things frequently used in bed-play.

Cullen shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. There are some things that did not need to see the light of day. Which might happen given his present company. “Cole,” he begins hesitantly as he props his sword up next to the bed and begins stripping off his armor. “Did you…” he shakes his head. “You knew, didn’t you? About Rainier?” For a moment he thinks the spirit boy isn’t going to answer him. It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened. Cole has the unnerving habit of speaking thoughts out loud that he’d rather not be publicized while maintaining silence when he might actually wish to hear the thoughts and feelings of those around him. The only person that can routinely get answers from Cole – and understand them – is Catheryn.

“An old name burns inside armor that shouldn’t fit, lit by the faces of the children he couldn’t save. I wanted to help, make him forget, but he wouldn’t let me. _Some hurts need to be remembered_.”  Cullen tries to stamp down the rush of respect he feels for the traitor. He’s only marginally successful. And that’s the problem, he supposes. He despises and respects the man all at the same time. He can’t imagine what it’s like for Catheryn.

Cullen grunts as he sits, the movement sending the water he drank earlier sloshing uncomfortably around his stomach.  A deep breath in followed by a slow exhale, he waits to see if he’ll be puking it up. “Why didn’t you say something?” he asks through gritted teeth, moving gingerly as he removes his boots.

“It would have only made the hurt greater. He didn’t want to hurt her.”

Varric is right. It’s like Blackwall – Maker’s breath, _RAINIER -_  didn’t know her at all. Not really. Or else he had been so blinded by his inner conflict that he’d failed to realize what all the things he knew about her would mean when applied to him.

_Bloody fool_ , Cullen thinks as he carefully slots himself behind Catheryn. Even with his back against the wall the bed is small enough that the front of his chest presses against her back and, after a moment of hesitation, he slides his arm over her waist and presses his forehead to the back of her neck.

Surprisingly, he sleeps.

 

* * *

 

In the morning Catheryn throws up – retching into the basin that he had the foresight to place beside the bed until her entire body shakes. Cullen says nothing. He simply holds her steady and pulls the hair away from her face, smoothing it behind her ears. When she’s finished and nothing more than a limp, quivering mess of misery in his arms he reaches around her and plucks a piece of shortbread from the plate. “Eat this,” he murmurs in her ear, his voice still thick with sleep. She shakes her head wearily and he can’t blame her. Food is probably the last thing that she wants right now but she needs it. “It will help. I promise.”

“Done this before, have you?”

“A few times,” he replies honestly, if not quite like this. He stamps down the guilt and regret. There is not time for that now. _I’m not that man anymore_ , he reminds himself. _Never again_.  It’s only when she stiffens slightly in his arms that he realizes that they were talking about two different things. He sighs. “In Kirkwall, mostly. The women…” he shuts his eyes against the memories of their faces. “… they had to hide it from Meredith until something could be done. Some even tried to hide it from me.” He didn’t blame them, not now. Not one single blighted bit.

“Oh.”

After a moment of hesitation she begins to nibble on the cookie held steady between his fingers. When it’s gone he helps her get a drink of water and then hands her a few pieces of the candied ginger. “Suck on these,” he tells her. “They help with the nausea.” Catheryn complies without comment.

“How’s Kitten doing?” Varric asks when he emerges from the room not long after, shrugging to settle his coat in place over the hard lines of his armor. The dwarf is starting to look a little worn around the edges and Cullen wonders if he even bothered to try sleeping.

Cullen winces. “You heard?”

The dwarf nods. “Yeah.”

“Then I’m sure you can imagine how well she’s doing,” he mutters as he heads out the door. When he returns from the privy to find Varric in the exact same position he sighs and asks, “Any word from Celene?”

Varric taps the heavy piece of parchment sitting next to him, the lion seal in blue wax broken. “Came this morning, just before dawn.”

“And?” There’s a fresh tray of food on the larger table and, despite the twisting in his gut, Cullen forces himself to pick up a roll and beginning eating it. Methodically. Every four bites he lets himself pause and wash it down with a mouthful of tea. Both bread and tea are tasteless as sawdust and heavy in his gut.

“Rainier’s been turned over to us. No questions asked. As expected,” Varric sighs. “Got another note from Leliana. She’s sent immediate orders to the Chargers to reroute to Val Royeux. They’re in the neighborhood stealing other merc companies out from underneath disgruntled Orlesian nobles.” Cullen smiles around the bite of hardboiled egg he’s forcing himself to swallow. When Catheryn had hauled Krem into the War Room and the pair had proceeded to lay out their idea for crippling the – many – nobles who had left the peace talks at Halamshiral unhappy with the way the Inquisitor had solved things it had been all he could do to not laugh until he fell flat on his ass.

He hadn’t.

But his lips had twitched and Catheryn’s brown eyes had gleamed merrily across the War Table at him, like she had known exactly what he was thinking. She had a way of doing that. Always had. Of looking at him and knowing exactly what he is thinking, what he is feeling. He wants that back; wants _her_ back so badly that he can feel it – a great clawing pain that is shredding him from the inside.

“Have Cole and Sera wait for them,” he orders, fingers tightening around the cup in his hand until he can feel it shatter beneath his grip. Varric stares. “I’m taking the Inquisitor back to Skyhold. Now.” He needs to get her someplace safe, or at least someplace safer than Val Royeux, and Skyhold is as safe as its going to get.

Also, if he doesn’t put some distance between himself and Rainier _right now_ it is highly likely that he’ll kill the man himself. Not for his treason. Not for his lies. But for what he’s done to Catheryn. For what he is still doing to her.

Varric doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even flinch. “I’m coming with you.”

Cullen nods curtly and forces the rest of the egg down his throat. It will have to do. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

They make the trip back to Skyhold as quickly as they can. It goes faster after Catheryn nearly falls from the Fiend fifteen miles out of Val Royeux. Cullen nearly topples from his own mount to keep her from hitting the ground and instead of putting her back in her saddle he settles her in his, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her against his chest.  Varric swears quietly and steadily under his breath for a good thirty minutes – even after he catches the Inquisitor’s mount. The Fiend is not exactly a friendly beast under the best of circumstances – and this isn’t the best of circumstances. She doesn’t say more than two or three words the first day. Or the second.  Or the third. In fact, she doesn’t do more than whisper quiet thanks to Cullen has he helps her in and out of the saddle throughout the day. She eats what he gives her, or tries to. It usually comes back up within a few hours, if not immediately. She drinks when he offers her his water flask. She sleeps – or closes her eyes at least – when they camp for the night, curling herself into an impossibly tiny ball against his chest.

By the time they get to Skyhold Cullen is as pale as the Inquisitor and Varric’s normally cheerful face is creased with worry.

“We need to get her to her rooms,” the dwarf observes as they watch the stablehands take their mounts away. “Or at least out of the public areas. We can’t let the people see her like this and…” Varric hesitates, looking uneasy. “… Leliana runs a pretty tight house but there’s always the possibility that someone slipped through the cracks.”

Cullen nods wearily. “Of course.” He sighs. Even here, arguably the safest place in Thedas and her _home_ , she is not safe.  Of course.  “I’ll get her to her rooms. Could you fetch…”

“Solas!” Catheryn’s cry is so loud and unexpected that both men jump.

“Catheryn…!” Cullen’s cry is softer, his sword halfway from his scabbard as he feels her leave his side.  Maker, he’s wound too tight. The initial pain and fury having long since dissolved into nothing but blind worry and frustration that eats at him until the need to lash out at anyone – at _anything_ consumes him. He hasn’t been this jumpy since the day he smashed his last vial of lyrium and watched it drain into dirt, Catheryn’s hands steady and reassuring over his own.

“Solas, you came back!” Catheyrn’s voice is nearly her own as she strides away from them, heading for the fortress’ entrance as swift and sure as a bolt fired from Bianca’s curves. Sure enough, the apostate is walking beneath the portcullis, calm and collected as always. Cullen watches as Solas’ lips twitch a little at Catheryn’s approach, one hand coming up in greeting.

“Of course. You have proven yourself to be a true friend,” Solas greets calmly, tipping his head to watch Catheryn as she strides towards him. “I could hardly abandon you now.”

Cullen can see, literally _see_ , the moment Solas’ innocent phrase hits her. She recoils from it like a physical blow, knees buckling beneath her, and for a moment he is sure that she’s going to hit the dirt.  Instead, in a serious of graceful, fluid movements that Cullen has a hard time tracking, Solas is at her side, the strength of his grip the only thing keeping the Inquisitor from going to her knees in the mud of the courtyard.

“ _Falon, eu son?”_

Catheryn clutches at the thin, ragged cotton of his shirt, her knuckles going white as she presses her face to his shoulder. “You came back,” she sobs as the elf gathers her in his arms, hoisting her like she weighs nothing. “ _You came back_. I didn’t think you’d come back,” she gasps as he soothes at her hair, clearly baffled. “I thought you had left me too.”

Cullen can see as he crosses the courtyard, literally _see,_ the moment Catheryn’s words hit Solas. The calm, aloof apostate snaps and something else, something darker, takes his place. Solas straightens and it isn’t until he does so that Cullen realizes that the elf has always slouched – carefully portrayed posture and rounded shoulders carving inches off the other man’s height. This new Solas is tall, taller than Cullen even, with a ramrod straight back and broad shoulders more suited for a warrior than a mage. The Commander can’t stop the sudden fear that skitters down his spine, the fine hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end as he realizes that suddenly he is not standing before the distant, scholarly apostate who dresses like a hobo and spends half his waking hours humming to himself as he paints the walls of his rotunda.

 No, the man before him is nothing less than an apex predator.

Solas meets his gaze, his normally soft gray eyes hard and sharp, glinting like moonlight off the edge of a blade. When he speaks Cullen can’t stop the shiver that jerks at his flesh, the words little more than a deep, feral growl that rumbles between them as he cradles Catheryn to his chest.

 “What has happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that I am not a linguist and even with the help of FenxShiral's amazing Project Elvhen will likely make a complete idiot of myself ;)
> 
> Elvhen translations:
> 
> "Falon, eu son?" = "My friend, how are you?" OR more literally "Friend" (guide/true friend) "Be you well?"
> 
> One of the things that nags at me is that in-game Solas will only speak Elvhen to you if you are Dalish. Which kind of makes sense... except for no one (at least, no one that I know personally) completely abandons their native tongue, even when surrounded by people who do not speak/understand it. Especially for greetings, swearing, pet names etc... 
> 
> Also *cough* Solas, your Fen'Harel is showing *cough*.
> 
> And... finally... I likely have (and will continue to do so) taken some liberties with Cullen's experiences at Kirkwall.


	7. Judgement

“You don’t have to do this yet,” Cullen tells her for what feels like the thousandth time.

 Catheryn finishes unplaiting her hair and runs her fingers through it, arranging the auburn cascade of waves to her liking, before she meets her Commander’s gaze. He’s leaning against her desk, arms crossed over his chest, worry and displeasure written in his eyes, his face set in the harsh lines of his _Commander look_. She can’t stop the small smile that pulls at her lips. It surprises her that she can still smile. It feels a betrayal, almost, that she can still find happiness. At the same time she is glad, fiercely, unapologetically _glad_ that He hasn’t stolen this from her as well. She can still smile at the fierce warrior pouting at her from across the room. She can still laugh, even as her heart twinges, at Krem’s sincere offer to load Him into one of the recently calibrated trebuchets and launch Him into the mountainside - an offer that she probably gave more consideration than she should have.

“I know, but I _need_ to.” She does. It isn’t something she can put off, though Maker knows Josephine and Leliana both seem perfectly content to _“lose”_ Thom Rainier in the depths of Skyhold’s dungeon for as long as Catheryn wants to wait. But she needs to do this and do it now. Krem and the Chargers had arrived with Him yesterday afternoon and Catheryn had promptly turned around and scheduled his judgement for following morning. Ignoring the fact that she literally does not have the time to waste wallowing in her grief and rage – the week that she’s spent in varying stages of depression ranging from hysterical sobs to a catatonic state is more self-indulgence than the Inquisition can afford for her to take – she really just needs to rip this band aid off.

Cullen grunts at her reply, understanding flickering across his handsome face. Her smile broadens slightly, enough that she can actually feel it pulling at her face, and across the room Cullen’s lips twitch in response, the scar on his lip curling as the one side of his mouth pulls up in an answering smile. “You won’t be alone,” he reminds her, shifting on the balls of his feet with the nervous, almost violent energy that she can feel curling through him. “We’ll – _I’ll_ – be there.”

“I know,” she repeats gently and gives in to the urge to touch him. Crossing the small distance between them she lays a comforting hand on his chest. “ _Thank you_ ,” she murmurs and hopes that he understands that she doesn’t just mean for standing next to her while she takes the throne to pass judgement. She hopes that he understands that she is grateful down to the very fibers of her soul for the way he has taken care of her during the past week and a half. She is no fool. She knows she would be utterly and completely lost without him. Or possessed. Catheryn shudders.  “I can’t… I can’t even begin to articulate what you’ve done for me these past days,” she tells him honestly, her voice breaking.

Cullen’s face softens, the iron authority of the Commander slipping away as he covers her hand with his own, squeezing gently. That little half smile of his – the one that turns more than half of Skyhold into lovesick puppies – tugs at his lips again. “Catheryn, I…”

“ _Lovely!_ ” Dorian’s voice ricochets up the stairwell and Cullen jerks beneath her hand like he’s been burned. “They’re just about ready out there. Are you…” he trails off as he rounds the top of the stairs, his keen gray eyes flickering between them. “Should I come back later?” he asks delicately, arching one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows. 

“Dorian…” Cullen growls warningly.

“Easy there, Commander,” the Tevinter drawls, holding up his hands in a classic _I am unarmed, don’t hurt me_ pose, though anyone that actually believed Dorian to be harmless beneath his fine silks and cultured arrogance isn’t alive to spread the tale. You only get to be that stupid once. Still, Catheryn knows that Dorian would give up drinking and dress exclusively from Solas’ wardrobe if he thought it would help her – and she really can’t ask for a surer sign of his friendship and devotion than that. “I just didn’t want to interrupt a _moment_ but the opportunity has passed, it seems.” He sighs theatrically. “Do you need to change?”

“No.” Dorian’s eyes widen ever so slightly at the admission, flickering over her in a more thorough once-over. A slow smile curls across his lips, bright and deadly. Frankly, Catheryn has seen softer expressions on the face of attacking dragons.

“So,” he purrs as he meets her gaze, “we’re playing that game are we?” Catheryn swallows and that’s reply enough. If anything Dorian’s grin gets bigger, flashier. The last time she saw this grin he made a giant’s head explode. “You do look ravishing,” he adds, extending a hand in her direction. She takes it and lets him draw her in, watching Cullen turn away out of the corner of her eye. “He’s never been able to resist you when you look like this.”

Normally for formal situations – like sitting in judgement – she wears the dress uniform that they wore to the masquerade at Halamshiral and pulls her hair back from her face in a severe coil. She is unyielding and unbending, a vibrant, violent splash of red sitting upon her throne. She’s only ever executed – or had executed – a handful of people: Erimond, for his role in corrupting the Wardens and a handful of rapists. Still, the low numbers do nothing to stop the rumors that her uniform is the color it is to hide the blood.  Today she is in white: a soft, brilliant white tunic that skims over her upper body without interruption to fall over the soft cream of legs clad in halla leather leggings and dark brown boots laced to just below her knee. It’s just the right balance of white and cream to call the subtle, rosy hints of her skin to the surface while providing a backdrop that turns the tumbling riot of her hair into a breathtaking masterpiece, just begging to be touched. Even the color of her boots is calculated - a near exact match to the chocolate of her irises.

“I know,” she agrees, unable to hide the bite that comes out with her words. It’s petty, she knows, and quite probably cruel but the knowledge hasn’t stopped her from doing it. She needs _it_ , needs something – _anything_ – that gives her some semblance of control over the madness and sorrow that rail against her. The Inquisitor will have her say and will pass her judgement but Catheryn needs the _woman_ to be present as well. “Shall we go?” No sense in putting it off any longer.

“Of course.” Dorian offers her his arm and she takes it gratefully. Unconsciously she holds out her hand towards Cullen, who has watched their entire exchange from the other side her desk. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done until she feels the warm, smooth glide of the supple leather that adorns his hands against her fingers.

“I won’t leave you,” he promises as he threads her arm through his. The word choice is deliberate, as deliberate as her wardrobe or the damning smirk on Dorian’s face.

Catheryn nods, unable to put the feelings swirling in her gut into words. Instead she inhales sharply and lets her two best friends – who are arguably the most handsome men in Skyhold –lead her from her quarters.

It’s a beginning.

               

* * *

 

The great hall is empty. Well, not _empty_ \- empty but far emptier than she expected it to be. Rainier’s arrest has been the talk of the keep ever since Catheryn returned from Val Royeux and she has expected that interest to manifest itself at the man’s trial. Instead, the cavernous room at the center of the castle proper echoes with its vacancy. Only a small space before the throne is occupied. There are guards at every door, even the door leading to the undercroft, and with a start Catheryn realizes that she recognizes all of them – an even blend of Leliana’s spies, Cullen’s most trusted Lieutenants, and Bull’s Chargers. The Iron Bull himself stands before her door, the broad line of his gray shoulders filling up the entire space. Dorian slaps his ass and Catheryn knows by the way that Bull doesn’t even _move_ that he knew they were standing there long before Dorian had touched him.

“Get out of the way, _amatus_ ,” the mage hisses dramatically, “you’re blocking our grand entrance!” Bull snorts, a knowing grin spreading across his face as he looks over his shoulder at the man who shares his bed and Catheryn can’t entirely stop the giggle that pulls from her vocal chords at the blush that suddenly rises in Dorian’s cheeks.

“My apologies, _kadan_. You are welcome to show me your _grand entrance_ later.” On her right Cullen chokes and on her left Dorian opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water several times before he settles for a regal scowl, the effectiveness of it utterly ruined by the glowing red of his cheeks. Bull smirks. “How you doin’ Boss?”

Catheryn shrugs. “I’ll live.”

Bull’s lone eye lingers on her face for a moment before he nods in agreement and claps a massive gray hand on her shoulder. “That’s my girl,” he rumbles in approval.

Now that she’s out from behind the shielding mountain of gray Qunari flesh Catheryn can see exactly who it is gathered before the throne to witness what is to come. Less than a dozen people wait – just Leliana and the rest of her inner circle. Well, all of them except Vivienne. A quick glance down the hall reveals Madame de Fer watching from her balcony with icy indifference. Honestly, Catheryn’s rather shocked that the other woman is deigning to watch at all. It’s not like they get along. At all. The Ice Queen hadn’t been all that fond of Blackwall either. Maybe _that_ is why she’s watching...

“Inquisitor!” Joesphine’s bubbly voice breaks through her thoughts. The ambassador is waiting in her usual place off to the side of the throne – quill held at the ready. “Are you… are you sure you want to do this?” she asks gently.

Catheryn summons a small smile for the gentle woman. “I’ll be fine, Josie,” she reassures. Josephine searches her face for a moment fore she, like Bull before her, nods.

“Alright. We can begin as soon as you take your seat,” she tips her head elegantly at the throne.

Dorian lets her go, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek before he goes to stand next to Solas. Cullen escorts her all the way to the throne. He doesn’t move away once she’s seated, taking a place among the witnesses as she expected. Instead he takes up position just behind her left shoulder, steady and unwavering. Catheryn blinks, desperate to clear away the tears stinging at her eyes as she feels Bull come up on her right, mirroring the Commander’s position at her shoulder.

She takes several deep, steadying breaths, and then nods to Josephine. “Bring him in.”

It is a shadow of the great, valiant, bear of a man that she knew – or thought she’d known – that Krem and Jim drag in between them. Blackwall, Rainier – whoever he is – it’s clear that he is broken.

Josephine clears her throat awkwardly, her horror at the wreck of the man before them obvious on her face. “For judgment this day, Inquisitor,” she formally begins – because of course Josephine would insist on doing this formally - after she has regained her composure, “I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall. The crimes…” Josephine pauses and steals a glance at the Inquisitor – or, more accurately, at the stone faced men standing behind her. “… Well, you are aware of his crimes,” she continues hastily. “The decision of what to do with him is yours.”

Catheryn’s heart stutters to a stop in her chest.

The physical and emotional toll of the last ten days – and perhaps longer – has clearly taken its toll, the stress and exhaustion adding a decade to his face. The thick, dark mass of his hair and beard are a mess: limp and dirty, the strands stringy in their despair. And his eyes, the pale, barely blue-green depths that Catheryn has been fascinated by since their first meeting are blank and… empty. Not cold. Not angry. Not sad. Just empty.

Empty and done.

He finally steadies himself on his feet and lifts his gaze, hitherto fixed on the floor, to her face. Instantly he recoils like he’s been slapped and Catheryn fights the urge to slap her hands over her face and cry at the quick parade of emotions that sprint across his face. Relief. Sorrow. Shame. Desire. _Love_.

_I am unworthy of you but that didn’t stop me from loving you._

The half hope that he had been lying to her even then dies a messy, merciless death.

She hates him. She wants to kick him, to beat him, to light him on fire and watch him burn. She wants to rip him apart with her bare hands until there’s nothing but shreds of flesh and shards of bone. She wants him to _hurt_.

But she doesn’t. Not really.

She wants to go to him. She wants to take him in her arms and soothe the pain away from his face. She wants to bury her fingers in his hair and kiss him, wants to feel the strength of his hands on her hips, holding her against him. She wants him to hold her and tell her that everything will be okay.

But it won’t. Not now. Maybe not ever. Not even though, even now, she is wildly, madly in love with him. That is, without a doubt, what hurts the most.

Catheryn kills the cry in her chest before it can claw its way out her throat, hands tightening over the arms of the throne until she swears she can feel the wood splintering beneath her grip. “I… I didn’t think this would be easy,” she whispers to the man standing before her, “ but it’s harder than I thought.”

He drops his gaze, looking away from her as he sighs, “Another thing to regret.”

 _I don’t want your_ regret _!_ Catheryn screams at him. _All I’ve ever wanted is your trust and your love. Why couldn’t you give me both? I gave them to you._

“What did you have to do to get my release?” He asks bitterly after it becomes clear that she isn’t – that she can’t – say anything else.

“I called in a few favors.” She tells him. “There are no small number of people that owe the Inquisition.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve undone all Josephine’s hard work!” he spits, “the world will learn how you’ve used your influence. Bargaining to let a traitor and murderer to go free?” He laughs and it’s a bitter, hollow sound that makes her flinch. “They’ll know the Inquisition is corrupt. They’ll abandon you.”

“Like you did?” Catheryn snaps hotly, unable to stem the sudden rise of fury. He flinches so hard beneath her words that he stumbles backwards and Catheryn follows, leaning forward in her seat to press her advantage. “I _wish_ there’d been another way but after what _you_ did _my_ options were limited,” she snarls. “Would you rather I had snuck another criminal into the prison and let him be tried and executed in your place? Would you rather I have sent soldiers to extract you and left who knows how many dead in their wake? Tell me, _Rainier_ , what should I have done instead?”

“You could have left me there!” he roars, recovering enough to surge forward, chains rattling as he pulls himself to his full height. “I accepted my punishment. I was ready for all of this to _end_ ,” he retorts miserably. “Why would you stop it?”

 A single unstoppable tear slides down Catheryn’s cheek as she stares at him, at this man so willing and wanting for death. “You are _mine_. Do you understand? Blackwall or Rainier – _it doesn’t matter._ You are _mine_.  Whatever your crimes – whatever your sins, I could not leave you there.” She looks away. It’s too painful. Too much.

“What becomes of me now?” he asks wearily.

Catheryn gives him a small, sad smile and it’s the most painful thing she’s done in days but it does its job: a thin dressing slapped over the sobs that bubble in her throat, keeping them from bleeding out. “You have your freedom.”

 His head snaps upward, suspicion written across his features. “It cannot be as simple as that.” In his voice she hears echoes of the despair and disbelief that she had voiced to Cullen as he held her in the stale darkness of the Val Royeux prison.

“It isn’t,” she tells him gently, the fury of moments before simply leaking away beneath her grief. It would be back, she knew, but for now it is leaving and she is glad. “You’re free to atone as the man you are – not the traitor you thought you were or the Warden you pretended to be.” He’s quiet and she is content to sit and watch him process her words, rolling them around in his mind and his mouth, getting a feel for them. Eventually he nods softly to himself and looks at her again.

“It will take time,” he says simply, still disbelieving. “You would accept that? And what I used to be?”

Catheryn raises her hand and makes a small motion that encompasses the entire room. “We’re all sinners here, Thom,” she echoes Cullen’s words to her and tries out His name, his _real_ name. It feels strange on her tongue. “You were ready to die,” she continues, folding her hands together and pressing them into her lap to disguise their shaking. “But I wasn’t ready to let you go. Your place is here. With me.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know how to be... here – _with you_ – as Thom Rainier,” he confesses gruffly.

She nods, a whisper of acceptance falling from her lips as she shuts her eyes. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I visually enjoy the idea of prisoner "Blackwall" declaring his love and asking for forgiveness at the end of his trial it is also one of the things that bothers me the most about his romance... it's all over and done with too easily.


	8. The Ashes of Another Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author blatantly uses some of her favorite companion dialogues on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What ever happened to the young man's heart?  
> Swallowed by pain, as he slowly fell apart"  
> \- "45", Shinedown

_You have your freedom._

He doesn’t know how to be free. He doesn’t know how to be Thom Rainier. It’s been half a decade since he’s been either. He doesn’t even _know_ Thom Rainier anymore. He’s not sure he wants to know him – to _be_ him. From what he can remember Rainier was a charming, if arrogant, sonofabitch who – when it mattered – thought only of himself. And an entire family had been murdered for it.

Whatever, whoever, else he might be he will always be a murderer. Some sins are too dark to wipe away.

“You didn’t want to be.” Cole’s quiet voice makes him jump. It shouldn’t surprise him that it’s the Spirit of Compassion that seeks him out first but it does. It surprises him that _anyone_ would seek him out. He doesn’t deserve freedom or compassion. Maker, he doesn’t deserve forgiveness or kindness of any kind. He deserves a rope and a short drop with a sudden stop and not a single, fucking thing more.“You made a new you,” the boy continues gently. “You are Blackwall. You killed Rainier.”

He remembers the cold rain, beating down upon his head as he stares down at the body of a man who would have given him a chance – a chance to try and atone for what he had done. He remembers standing before the pyre it had taken forever to light, flames hissing in the downpour as he stands and watches the Warden burn. He left his name, who he was – Captain, traitor, _killer_ – on that pyre and Warden Blackwall had walked away.

Perhaps that is why this is so hard. In his heart, Rainier has been dead for years.

If only that were possible,” he tells the boy regretfully. Rainier might have died inside of him but that didn’t make him Blackwall.

“Bruised and battered, it doesn’t matter, you can take another strike. Come and get me you bastards. Dance with me and dance with death – _I am already dead_.” Cole’s voice whispers across his skin, a litany of memories.  “You would stand between Rainier and the carriage.” And he would. Maker, he would. He’s dreamt it a hundred times. A thousand. The opportunity to be there and stop himself from crossing that line from _arrogant bastard_ to _monster._  “It doesn’t work like that,” Cole reminds him sadly. “So you carry the bodies to remember.”

He sighs. “I suppose I do.” Even now he can feel them. Three little girls that would never grow up to be the belle of the ball - all with bouncing curls and blue eyes that would never gleam anymore. A little boy, toy sword tucked into his belt, the curve of his cheeks still plump with babyhood. He’d laid them out as best he could, their little bodies so heavy in his arms as he soaked his face with tears. He can never forget that. Forget _them_. He has to remember.

“If you want to remember, remember this,” Cole tells him seriously, pale blue eyes full of promise and steel. It takes his breath away a little. “If you become Rainier again I _will_ be here and I _will_  kill you.” He forgets – everyone does, he thinks – that the nondescript spirit was responsible for the slaughter inside the White Spire. They only think of Cole in his capacity as a spirit – or a demon. They fail to realize that he’s a deadly force already: an assassin of endless cunning. He’s even made that mistake himself, more than once. He doesn’t make it now. “And if I…,” Cole continues, his voice suddenly shaking as he looks away. “If I become a demon again and hurt people _you_ will kill me.”

He stares at Cole for a long moment, mind scrambling. The memory is what keeps him from repeating it, from falling victim to the same sins again. He has no illusions. He’s not a nice man. He’s not a good man. He’s not Blackwall. But Cole is right. He’s not Rainier any more either. The memory that he can’t let himself forget killed that man a long time ago. He’s different now. He’s made himself different. The Inquisition has made him different. _Catheryn_ has made him different.

He’ll never be Rainier again and he can’t be Blackwall, not really. But maybe he can be Thom.

It’s the same for Cole, he thinks.

“I believe I can work with that,” he promises steadily, extending his hand. Cole hesitates a moment before taking it and the pair shake on their agreement.

 

* * *

 

In the end, after a ridiculous amount of deliberation, Thom returns to the stables. He regrets it almost instantly. Down below everything is exactly how he left it: his tools are still carefully stowed and the rocking horse that he has been working on is still only half finished. He pauses at the foot of the stairs and has to talk himself into walking up them. The last time he went up them Catheryn had been in his arms and he’d been too busy drowning himself in her to even notice where he was placing his feet.

“It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to go, you miserable bastard,” he tells himself and it’s the truth so he forces himself to take a deep breath and climb the blighted stairs.

One look at the loft above and he knows, he fucking _knows_ , that of all the times in his life that he picks to suddenly _not_ be a coward this is surely one of the worst. When he left the loft it had been bathed in moonlight and Catheryn had been curled up asleep in his bed. It had been, without a doubt, one of the beautiful, peaceful sights he’d ever seen. It had carried him from the moment he left the bed to the moment he mounted the gallows and saw, with sinking heart, Catheryn join the crowd.

There is not a shred of that peace left.

 Even now, eleven days later, there is a sense of desperate urgency in the air that can’t be shaken.  The clothes he had been wearing that night are on the floor, though in different spot than where he had left them. They would have had to go through his pockets, he realizes as he looks around, to find the report on Mornay’s execution. The trunk that he kept his few personal belongings in is pulled out from the wall, the lock lying next to it on the floor. The thick blanket that he’d covered Catheryn with is thrown back, half hanging on the floor and he can practically _see_ her frantic departure. A stray bit of white cloth, out of place among the browns and blacks that dominate his space, catches his eye from over by the bed. Slowly he walks over and reaches down between the bales of hay that make up his mattress and the low sill of the barn window, pulling it free. It takes a second of holding it in his hands before he realizes what it is, his fingers tightening convulsively around it.

Catheryn’s breast band.

The sensory memory of removing it from her body, so boneless and languid with pleasure that she was barely holding onto consciousness, hits him straight in the gut, driving all the air from his lungs and his body to its knees. He’d removed it and… his eyes slide to the top of the bed where he had laid it beyond her head.  It must have slid off the bed at some point while they were… or perhaps later, when she got out of bed.

She’d been so beautiful. So fucking, _fucking_ gorgeous. And now…

Thom lets out a strangled sob and collapses in on himself, pressing his face into the fur of the bear hide spread across his bed. The moment he does so, inhaling a deep gasping breath to try and steady the grief that is shaking him, he regrets it. His bed still smells like her. No. It stills smells like _them_ – like elfroot and lavender, like the polish he uses on his armor, like sweat and _sex_.  With a great deal of effort Thom rolls himself over onto his back, flinging up an arm to cover his eyes and the tears that he can’t stop from welling.

 _You were ready to die_ , she’d told him with so much sorrow in her eyes that he couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t bear to. Not knowing that he was mongrel that had put it there. _But I wasn’t ready to let you go._

 _You should have_ , he tells her silently. _You would be so much better off without me_. He isn’t a fool. He sees how others watched her, knows that there were no shortage of men that love her. Better men than he. _Worthier_ men. He’d meant for her to move on, to mourn him but to find love again. She is young, so young. With the weight of the world on her shoulders he frequently forgot just how fucking young she really is, but it had been clear that night as he stared at her in the moonlight, not trusting himself to wake and leave should he fall asleep in her arms. Pleasure and sleep had smoothed the lines from her face and for once she looked exactly like the twenty-two year old girl he knew her to be. Nearly half his age. So young. So of course she will find love again. A love that is more deserving.

Unsteadily, Thom rises to his feet. He can’t stay here. Not tonight.

So he goes to the Herald’s Rest, tucks himself into the corner of the bar, and drinks until he passes out.

 

* * *

 

The shock of liquid ice against his face drags him into consciousness. He rears back, sputtering, shaking himself like the dog that he is only to find the Iron Bull and Cabot watching him with varying degrees of amusement. There’s an empty bucket in the Qunari’s hand. Or at least Thom thinks it’s a bucket. Everything is kind of blurry and all the dwarves of Orzammar are apparently trying to mine the brains out of his skull.

 “See,” Bull remarks casually to the bartender, “I told you water would do the trick. No need to resort to anything drastic.”

Cabot grunts skeptically. “Sure about that?”

Thom blinks and finds that he’s staring at the polished wood of the bar top.

“I’m sure,” Bull rumbles and upends the remaining water over his head.  “Time to get up Blackwall.”

“Fuck off,” he mutters – or tries to. His tongue his heavy and dry in his mouth and about as coordinated as a newly spawned shade. “And haven’t you heard?  That’s not my name.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s your name or not,” Bull shrugs, “If you want me to call you something different you’ll tell me. But right now you’re going to get your ass off that stool and come with me before you stink out the whole bar.”

Thom raises his hand and makes a rude gesture with his fingers.

“Told you,” Cabot grunts.

“Yeah, yeah… put it on my tab,” Bull dismisses. Thom is halfway back to unconsciousness when a large hand closes on his upper arm and hauls him from his seat. “You… whatever your name is… you’re coming with me.” Not that Bull gives him much of a choice. Thom is not a small man but hungover, exhausted, and broken he is no match for the large Qunari.  He manages to stumble through the tavern without bumping into too many tables but as soon as the sun hits his retinas he doubles over and loses everything that’s gone down his throat in the past day and a half just outside the tavern’s back door. “Didn’t think you were a lightweight, Blackwall.”

“…not…” he spits out and then gags again, the itchy dryness of his mouth against his tongue making his stomach heave.

“…your name? We’ll discuss that later. For now drink this,” Bull slaps something against his lips and Thom drinks without hesitation. It’s cool and wet and Thom groans as it slips down his throat. “Now, if you were going to say ‘Not a lightweight’…” Thom grunts and pushes the canteen away, his stomach informing him in no uncertain terms that it had had enough. “Well in that case, please tell me that you stayed away from the good stuff. Dorian will get huffy if I let Cabot run out of the fancy drinks.”

Despite himself, Thom laughs. “... drank…piss,” he manages to get out. There must have been something besides water in that canteen because with each passing moment Thom is a little steadier on his feet and his head is trying to kill him just a little less. His eyesight is still blurry though – all fuzzy and smudged around the edges.

“Excellent. And that potion must be working now – you’re looking a little less like a shitty undead,” observes Bull, confirming his suspicions. “Here.”

“What…?” But he knows what it is as soon as his fingers curl around it. A sword. It’s a practice sword but it’s still a sword.

He blinks.

“C’mon,” Bull’s hand claps against his shoulder. “We’re going to go beat shit up. Or rather, you’re going to swing your sword around and _I’m_ going to beat the shit out of you.”

Thom groans. “No.”

Bull’s eyebrow shoots up to the base of his horn. “I don’t recall _asking_ you,” he informs Thom dangerously and in his husky voice Thom can hear the thread of the control and violence that makes him – or made him – one of the best fucking Ben Hassarath in all of Thedas. “You’re hurting – fucking bleeding out on the inside – and it’s making you reckless and stupid. You need to beat some of that self-pity out of you. Or have it beaten out.”

Thom straightens, the hilt of the sword settling into his grip despite the words that come out of his mouth, “I’m not…”

The Iron Bull knocks him flat on his ass.

“The way I see it, _Blackwall_ , you’ve got two choices,” explains Bull as he nudges at the fallen man with the flat of his sword. “One: you break through that blanket of self-loathing and regret you’ve swaddled yourself with, grow a fucking pair, stand up, and get beaten like a man. Or two, you can lie there in a miserable heap and I will still beat the every loving shit out of you.”

“Fuck you,” Thom snarls.

Bull laughs. “We could do that instead. Head’s up though, Dorian’s the jealous type.” His teeth flash white against the soft blue-gray of his skin.

Thom surges to his feet, sword swinging. Bull blocks the blow easily and ducks away, grinning like an idiot. “Good! Good! It’s nice to know you’re still in there. You could’ve been one of the Chargers, Blackwall,” he adds as they exchange another handful of blows. The Qunari’s talking and breathing like he’s not doing anything more exhausting than tossing a pair of dice and Thom… well, he’s not happy to admit that he’s grunting and heaving like an obese, wingless dragon. “You’ve got the stature, the attitude…”  He knocks Thom straight in the face and _Maker_ , he can feel his teeth rattle in his skull.

“… and you’d be my boss.” He turns his head and spits, a bright flash of blood mixing with the spit and bile on the ground.

“Hey, I’m a great boss!” Bull defends as Thom tries to take advantage of the one-eyed man’s weak side, distracting him with a feint and swerving at the last minute to try and land a blow to the other man’s groin. “I’m a firm believer in No Pants Friday!” Thom misses, though whether that’s the fault of the sour churning in his stomach and the pounding in his head or the result of the sudden bark of laughter that hits his chest as the mental image of all the Chargers parading around Skyhold pants-less marches through his head he’s not quite sure. He’d like to believe the latter which almost guarantees that it’s the former.

“And a mercenary,” Thom points out, narrowly twisting out the way of a blow that could have – _would_ have – broken his barren arm. Fuck, but he hates fighting without a shield. It always makes him feel naked. “I’m done with that part of my life.” He meant it as a shrugging statement, a gentle dismissal of the job Bull is subtly offering him but the moment it comes out of his mouth – harsher than expected – he knows it is true. Never again will gold rule his sword. He’ll fight and kill because he believes he needs to and not for any other reason.

“Why?” Bull interrupts his moment of clarity with a grunt. “Because you’re _better_ now? Because there’s something _wrong_ with working for gold?” Thom shakes his head but Bull narrows his eyes over the top of their crossed blades and bites out, “The thing about _my_ guys? They’re honest with themselves. You could’ve learned that lesson.” And then with a roll of his shoulder Bull knocks him into the dirt, the tip of the Qunari’s practice blade pressing into the hollow of his throat.

“I’d rather fight for a cause.” This time the gently meant words actually come out how he means them. Thom raises his eyes to meet Bull’s. “There’s been too much death in the last decade. I didn’t save those children. I can’t bring them back. But maybe I can make the world a safer place so that other children don’t have to worry about dying like they did – cut down long before their time.” Thom sighs and looks away. “My place is with the Inquisition.”

The sound of the practice sword being thrown to the ground pierces the air like a clap of thunder and Thom winces instinctively. The Iron Bull snorts at the reaction and offers the fallen man his hand. “Glad you remembered that,” he tells Thom serenely. “You’re a good fighter. A good _man_. I’d hate to have to toss you out on your ass.”

 _He thought I was leaving the Inquisition_ , Thom realizes suddenly, staring. It isn’t a completely misplaced thought on part of the Iron Bull. He had left once already, after all, never intending to return. He inhales sharply and takes the large gray hand, letting the Qunari haul his aching body to his feet. It isn’t like he has done anything to dissuade Bull – or anyone else, for that matter – differently. He’d been given his freedom and what did he do? He’d sulked from the great hall, hidden from everyone, and then proceeded to spend his first evening of freedom drinking and snarling at anyone that got close. When the realization hits his hand convulses around Bull’s, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

_I thought I was leaving the Inquisition._

“You…”

Bull shrugs like it is nothing even though it is everything. “Ben Hassarath, remember?”

“I remember.” And Thom does. It was the first trip the Inquisitor had taken him on. He remembers standing on the Storm Coast and watching, baffled and angry, as the one-eyed Qunari had confessed himself a spy for the Qun. The Inquisitor had tipped her head, smiled, and welcomed him anyway. It’s like she knew, even then, exactly who the Iron Bull is beneath all the masks and names he wears.

 “So, since you’re not ‘ _Blackwall_ ’ what do you want me to call you? Rainier?”

Thom shudders. “No,” he spits quickly. “Not Rainier. Rainier is dead. He is my Hissrad.” He looks into Bull’s remaining eye and sees understanding there.

“Alright then, so not Rainier. What’s left?”

“Blackwall, I suppose, since everyone’s used to it,” he shrugs. “Thom, if you want.”

“Alright then, _Thom_ ,” Bull stresses, clapping his hand in approval on the other man’s shoulder. “I just want you to know that if this ‘saving the world’ thing falls apart and goes to shit? There’s room in the Chargers for you. No Pants Friday is a _great_ cause.” Thom snorts.

“Of course it is.”

“No finer one… _there_ you are!” Bull grins at someone over Thom’s shoulder: a wide, face splitting smirk that is tender and lecherous all at the same time. There’s only one person that warrants such a look from the Qunari: Dorian.

 Thom sighs and tries to square his shoulders. He and the Tevinter have always had a… rocky relationship. Largely because Dorian treats him like an unwashed bear who just happened to fall into a suit of armor and stumble around the keep. Dorian and the Inquisitor on the other hand have liked each other from the moment they first met – trading snarky remarks and grinning like fools inside Redcliffe’s chantry. Whatever had happened when they were propelled forward in time by Alexius’ magic had only cemented that burgeoning friendship, forging an unbreakable bond between the two mages. They aren’t _in love_ but they love each other: truly, madly, passionately, and unreservedly. They are the closest of friends: trusting and treasuring each other beyond question.

If there is anyone in Skyhold who Thom needs to fear with every breath his body takes it is the man he knows is standing behind him.

“Ugh,” the strung out sound of disgust ghosts across Thom’s hair as Dorian circles him: a predatory falcon – gleaming, beautiful, and absolutely lethal. “Did you have to add _sweat_ to the stench, amatus? He smells like the undead that came shambling out of that lovely swamp we had to slog through a while back.”

Bull rolls his eye indulgently. “It’s been a year since you’ve been to the Mire.”

“And I’m still getting the smell out of my clothes – or I would be if I hadn’t given up and burned them already,” Dorian huffs, coming to a stop beside the hulking Qunari. His gleaming gray eyes flicker over Thom in a quick, analyzing glance that – he knows from past experience – misses absolutely nothing.  The mage sighs, a great suffering sound. “Maker knows I’ve worked with worse,” he mutters to himself. “Come along then, Thom.”

“I… _what?”_ Thom sputters. “No. I’m going to…”

“… come with me so that I can make sure that you look like a warrior of the Inquisition again – a member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle! – and not some unwashed vagrant lying dead in a ditch.” Dorian sniffs haughtily, eyes cold as they lock onto his face. “Honestly, at this point you’re just making Solas look good.”

Thom bares his teeth and barely avoids growling like some sort of wild animal. “I do not need help. I am perfectly capable of bathing on my own.” Dorian raises a meticulously groomed eyebrow.

“Blackwall…” there’s that thread of iron, of absolute control in Bull’s voice as he crosses his arms over his chest. Thom stares, gaze darting between the two of them as it sinks in that they’re not giving him a choice in this matter. At all. He’ll go with Dorian… or Bull will make him.

“Fine. Fuck you both,” he snaps and turns on his heel.

Dorian sighs and catches up to him easily with long, graceful strides. “Mmmm… a delicious thought. Even if you’re not quite my usual type.”

Maker.

Thom resists the urge to turn and deck the younger man in the face.

Barely.

When the water of the first bath turns almost black with the dirt and grime, Thom is forced to acknowledge that there might actually be something to the _undead_ and _homeless drunk_ descriptors that people keep applying to him. Dorian’s lips curl with distaste. “Good thing I had them prepare two,” he mutters and waves his hand commandingly at the second tub. Thom sighs but does as he’s told, choosing to ignore the fact that the mage has gathered all of his clothes in a single location – the previously empty hearth – and lit them on fire with no certain amount of glee. If the Tevinter intends him to have to walk naked through Skyhold proper… well, there are worse punishments.

And it’s not like he hasn’t done it before.

When he’s done bathing – this time the water a semi acceptable level of murky peppered with soapy bubbles – Dorian wordlessly hands him a towel and directs him to the clothes he’s set out on a nearby chair. They’re his, Thom notes with relief, and not some elaborate, fancy get up of silks and fine linens that Dorian would no doubt dress him in if the mage thought he could get away with it. In the year that he has known him Thom has seen Dorian cry exactly twice: when he confronted his father, and when Catheryn declared that they would all attend the party at Halamshiral in military dress uniforms. He pulls on the simple brown trousers and the green shirt and, failing to see any boots meant to replace the ones smoldering in the fireplace, turns to go.

“Ah, not so fast Big Man,” Dorian’s voice stops him as sure as a chain tied around his ankles. “We’re not done here yet. Sit.” Dorian tips his head at the chair and, after a moment of hesitation, Thom sits and watches in disbelief as Dorian produces a large mirror from somewhere and props it up against the wall opposite him. “Your hair is a disaster,” the mage mutters disapprovingly. “Did you not even _try_ to comb it during the past two weeks?”

Thom blinks. Whatever it is that he expects from Dorian right now, commentary on his hair is not it. Oddly enough. “Um… no? Maker’s balls, I was expecting to die,” he remarks gruffly. “I wasn’t really concerned with the state of my _hair_.”

“Mistake number one,” Dorian informs him lightly. “One should always face death looking as fabulous as possible.” Thom flinches as the other man’s hands thread their way through the hair in mention without warning. “Oh, do stop that,” he chides, slapping Thom lightly on the shoulder. “I’m not going to light _you_ on fire, no matter how atrocious your hair is.”

“Forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you.” He spits it out before he can stop himself. Clearly, self-preservation has never been one of his finer qualities.

Dorian’s fingers still, tightening in his hair. “Because of Catheryn?” he asks and lightness in his tone is deceptive, casually masking the lethality that lurks beneath. Thom swallows, aware that this is the most dangerous situation he has ever found himself in. Charging into the face of a roaring dragon with a half dozen dragonlings hissing and circling, trying to slip past his guard had been a safer situation - and one he would infinitely prefer to currently be in. “She has apparently forgiven you. Why shouldn’t I?” Thom grunts and meets the other man’s gaze in the mirror. It’s hard and flinty, cold with a passion and devotion that would burn Thom up and leave nothing but a handful of ashes floating in the air. “She was beautiful yesterday, wasn’t she?”

Thom swallows again, his mouth suddenly dry. _Yes,_ he groans internally. _She was_. So fucking beautiful. The browns and whites and creams a delicious tapestry that made her skin glow and eyes pop, her gorgeous hair a riotous tumble of waves around her face and across her shoulders, just begging to be touched. “Yes,” he manages to get out hoarsely, the pressure of Dorian’s fingers in his hair and the pointedness of his glance letting him know in no uncertain terms that he expected a response.

“I agree. And it was the most fucking depressing thing I’d ever seen. Need I explain to you _why_?”

He shuts his eyes, unable to stand the look in the other man’s eyes. “No,” he confesses brokenly. He’d seen it too. Catheryn had been beautiful, fuckingly, gorgeous there on her throne but it hadn’t been _her_. The vibrant, passionate woman that he loved was gone – a glimmer of her only visible when he roused her to anger. Instead there was someone else staring out of her eyes. Someone broken and drowning in despair. Someone _fragile_.

Of all the words that he could have used to describe the Inquisitor _fragile_ would have never been one that he’d have picked. Until yesterday.

“Good. You begin to understand what you’ve done.” There is nothing light, nothing teasing in Dorian’s voice now and Thom doesn’t fight him. He’s right. He did that.

Thom sits in brooding silence while Dorian swaps out his fingers for a fine toothed comb and a pair of scissors, the younger man humming softly to himself as he untangles the mess of Thom’s hair and trims up his beard. He’ll never admit it to the Tevinter but it feels good. He can feel… _himself_ , whoever that might be, emerging from the grime and chaos.

He thinks of Catheryn’s eyes and sighs. He doesn’t deserve to feel good.

“I’ve been thinking,” Dorian begins suddenly.

Thom groans. He’s not up to anything else. He’s raw and tired and filled with so much regret that he can’t possibly handle anything else. Coming from Dorian he doesn’t expect anything kind. Especially not now. “Oh, this should be good,” he mutters.

Dorian catches his gaze in the mirror and rolls his eyes dramatically. “I was _about_ to say that you’re too hard on yourself, Blackwall.”

Thom’s eyebrows disappear into the mop of newly groomed hair. “Too hard on myself? After what you just said?” he asks incredulously. “Is this setting up for a punchline?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

The mage sniffs disdainfully and lowers the scissors and comb, setting them carefully on the nearby table. “You’re not the thug I thought you were,” Dorian admits quietly and Thom is so stunned he can’t do anything but stare at their reflection, wordless. “You’re not the thug _anyone_ thought you were.”

“Except Catheryn…” the whisper is out before he can stop it and Dorian nods.

“Except Catheryn,” he agrees quietly. “She has always been able to truly _see_ those around her. She even saw _me_.” A small smile of unrestrained joy curves at his lips and Thom nearly looks away, the reminder of the trust that he had walked away from hitting him like a blade to the heart.

 _No_ , he corrects silently. Bull is right. He needs to be honest, if only with himself. _The trust that I betrayed. That I destroyed_.

“Point is,” Dorian resumes gently. “You should let yourself off the hook. I know bad men and you’re not one.” For just a moment in the reflection of the mirror Dorian lets his mask slide, revealing the pained and haunted young man that lives beneath the gaiety and arrogant banter: a man who, by his own admission, has looked into the dark heart of the Imperium and fled in the face of its cruelty and depravity, desperate to change the world.

Thom’s mouth opens and closes several times before he manages, “I’m not sure how to respond.”

Dorian snorts and just like that the mask is back, a smile that is almost sharp in its brilliance curling his lips. “Of course not,” he drawls. “Let’s not go _crazy_ with defying expectations.” He steps back, arms crossing over his chest as he surveys Thom critically in the mirror. “There,” he announces with a twirl of his hand. “I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to you.”

Thom swallows. Hard. He has absolutely no doubt what Dorian is referring to.

Catheryn.

 

* * *

 

Thom returns to his loft this time – after spending the remaining portion of the day working in Catheryn’s garden following a quick bite to eat and quiet talk with Varric – to find that it has been tidied. His belongings are back where they belong and there are fresh linens on his bed. The bear skin with its treasury of sensory triggered memories is folded neatly on top of the trunk – not gone, but safely out of the way. He knows who is responsible for the quiet, orderly return of his sanctuary as soon as he sees the bundle of new clothes lying across the foot of his bed.

Dorian.

Thom’s lips twitch in what might be a smile of gratitude or a frown of exasperation – he’s not sure which – as he runs his fingers over the clothing. It’s not silks and ridiculous frippery but it is a damn sight better than the simple trousers and worn cottons shirts he normally wears. These will fit much better, he can tell already at a glance, and the tops are an array of deep, earthy colors. “Meddling ‘vint,” he mutters but it’s absent of any venom. Raising his eyes his gaze catches the flash of white sitting upon one of the pillows. With shaking hands he reaches out and picks up the breast band, twining the sturdy fabric between his fingers until his fingers catch on something that isn’t cloth.

Turning the strip of fabric he finds a scrap of paper pinned to the other side, two words scrawled across it in Dorian’s elegant handwriting:

_Fix this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not-so-fun "Fun Fact": the first several drafts of this chapter had Blackwall contemplating and/or attempting suicide but after finishing out the story I decided that I really, really didn't want have to dig myself out of that hole. Also, I think it would have taken this fic from "angsty" to "too damn depressing to read". Still, I think it is a completely viable response given Blackwall's current emotional health.
> 
> The idea of Blackwall streaking through Skyhold is a direct response to a bit of his in-game dialogue. If you're asking him about other members of the Inner Circle he reveals that he "taught" Solas how to play Diamondback... and Solas promptly beat him, leaving him "to walk back to my quarters with only a bucket for my bits."
> 
> A note on ages: We're not given a year of birth for Thom Rainier (at least, not that I could find in my cursory look) but my personal head cannon is that he was still younger when he murdered Callier, but old enough that his actions were driven by desperation and ambition (ie: "I'm not as high ranking as I wanted to be at this point in my life but if I do *this* then I could end up important in a big way should Gaspard rise to power.") For me, approx. 35 seems a logical age for that to happen. Callier and his family were killed in 937 so that would make Blackwall's approximate age somewhere around 40-41. I imagine that the real Blackwall was probably 5-10 years his senior. For a human Inquisitor (maybe all Inquisitors?) you reveal through conversation with Dagna that you were approximately 10 years old during the Fifth Blight, making you approximately 20 at the time of the Conclave.


	9. Surrender

The next day he hides in the stables.

It isn’t the brave thing to do or the best thing but even after a decent night’s sleep he can’t… he can’t face Her just yet. So he goes to Master Dennet and the stern Horsemaster sees his need with a glance and sets him to work. Mindless, backbreaking, fucking honest _work_. It’s soothing: a balm for the rawness of his soul.

Of course, he should have known that they won’t let him hide.

He’s down to nothing but his boots and his trousers, shoveling out another stall – the dracolisk that usually inhabits it eyeing him distrustfully from where he’s tied it a few stalls down, its mouth still moving as it chews at the rat Thom has bribed it with – when Sera’s sing-songing voice breaks the comfortable silence.

“Wow, Quizzy always said you were ripped like a bloody washboard. Always thought she was making shite up because she likes your sword work.” The thin blonde elf giggles maniacally from where she is perched on the top of a stall wall, legs slung over the edge and a pan cradled in her lap. “ _Sword work_ ,” she emphasizes, snorting.

“Can you please… not?” he asks, turning back to his work.

The crazy elf snorts again. “Why?” she asks, giggling. “I know what you _diiiid_ … You two. In the loft.”

Throm freezes. Surely she can’t… she doesn’t mean…? He steals a glance rogue and groans at the smirk on her face. _She does_.  “Uh, h-how did you…?”

If anything the smile on Sera’s face gets wider in face of his flushed stammering. “Just do,” she nods knowingly. “Cause I _know_ things.”

He drops his head to the stall wall and groans. “Could we… could we not speak so _loudly_ about things that you _know_?” he asks hopefully, feeling his heart hit the bottom of his stomach. _Fix this_ , Dorian had ordered. He didn’t imagine that talking about… _that_ … loudly, where anyone could hear them would do anything towards garnering him any favor with the Inquisitor. Never mind that he feels like he’s going to fly apart at the seams every time he so much as thinks of her, let alone what they had done.

Sera laughs so hard that she nearly falls off her perch, her fingers tightening around the object in her lap as she convulses in a round of rib breaking hysterics. “Too late for _that_ ,” she tells him decisively, wiping tears away from her eyes. “ _You’re_ the one scaring horses and stable boys, getting hay up your nooks.” She snorts again. “Crannies.”

Thom hits his head against the thick hewn boards of the wall. “Maker’s balls.”

“Hey. Not all your fault. Quizzy’s _loud_. You should be proud of yourself.” Sera actually looks a little impressed, the admiration frank in her voice as she continues. “Who woulda thought that you…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he snarls, “just leave it, Sera!”

“ _Pbbt_. Don’t get pissy at me cause you’re not getting any, fuzzface,” Sera retorts with a roll of her eyes. “Fuck. You and Cullen both – uptight in the britches, yeah? Need a woman over you. Because _positions_ ,” she sniggers to herself.

Thom seriously considers stabbing himself with the pitchfork. It will be a bit messier than a sword but surely…

“Oi, you. Stop thinking those thoughts. Shite. You get all sad-faced. Like I kicked a fucking puppy. Just trying to get you to loosen up, yeah? You’re too broody for your own damn good.” Her touch against his arm is feather light, just enough to let him know that she’s there. “No one’s seen you all day. Thought I might drop in on you. See if you wanted some pie.” She holds out the pan in her hand enough for him to get a good look at it. It’s pie. Or three quarters of one, really. The mountain of whipped cream on the top artfully molded to look like a pair of breasts.

He can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips. “Sera, are you offering to share _food_ with me?”

The elf scowls. “That’s what I said, innit? So you want some or no?”

Thom’s smile broadens. “Just let me get her worship’s monster back in his stall and I’ll join you.”

“Always knew you were up to something,” Sera remarks some time later. The Fiend has been carefully stowed away and the pair are perched bales of hay, a third one between them holding what remains of the pie that they’ve been attacking with the pair of forks that Sera had produced from down the front of her shirt. Thom had accepted his meekly, knowing better than to protest. It is probably cleaner than anything he has out here anyway.

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, the slivers of tender baked apples falling to the pie tin below with an audible _flop_. “Sorry,” he finally mutters, looking away.

Sera snorts and scoops up the filling that he’d dropped, popping it into her mouth with relish. “For what?” she asks, puzzled. “ _Trying_? Better than most ever do. I don’t get it, though. If you want to change, just change. Why this _fake warden_ rubbish?”

It’s an honest question and that fact alone rocks him to the core. She truly doesn’t understand the need for lies, for pretense, this girl who practically rules over all the little people of Thedas. He’s jealous. The world is so black and white for her. Good and evil. High and low. Big and little. Everything is so clear for her while he drowns in a sea of gray.

“For one,” he explains softly, staring down at the pie, “people wanted me dead. Being someone else kept me breathing.” If he is being honest being someone else not only protected him from those that would haul him before a judge and see him dangle from a noose but from himself. How many times had being  _Warden Blackwall_ kept him from falling on his own sword? Enough that he doesn't want to think about it. “And then, knowing that people thought I was good made it… easier.”

Sera laughs, expression incredulous. “You needed them to think you could so _you_ could think you could,” she clarifies with a shake of her head. “You’re smart,” she tells him with a smirk that says otherwise, “but you’re sort of stupid.”

Thom scratches at his beard and smiles at her. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I know.”

* * *

 

On his fourth day of freedom Thom checks to make sure that he still has a pair of balls between his legs, straightens his spine, and grabs the dragon by the nose. So to speak. He heads to Cullen’s office first and is both relieved and disappointed when Cullen’s personal aide informs him that the Commander is running exercises with the newest batch of recruits beyond the walls of Skyhold. “Back around noon,” the aide informs him and Thom nods as he takes his leave.

Cullen, it appears, will have to wait until later.

Thom lets out a shaky breath the he hadn’t been aware that he is holding. Cullen – he’s most sure of how his meeting with the Commander will go, especially after talking with others. Cullen had been – _is_ – one of his closest friends and there had been compassion and understanding in the other man’s eyes when Catheryn had passed her judgement. Fury too, but Thom had expected that. The Commander's feelings for Catheryn are probably the worst kept secret in Skyhold but Cullen is a straightforward man.

 _We’re all sinners here_ , she had said but it had been Cullen’s words in her mouth. Catheryn isn’t particularly devout, even considering what has happened to her, and the use of the word _sinners_ belongs to someone with more faith in the divine than the Inquisitor possesses. Still, to hear her say those words, to know that Cullen believes them enough to say them to _her_ allows a small kernel of hope to spring in his chest.

He'll probably beat Thom into a fucking pulp but he'll help him up afterwards, the worst of the crime forgiven.

He’s been lucky so far. He knows better than to expect every talk to goes smoothly. Cassandra, he knows from the cold shoulder and hurt look she has already given him, will take some time before she is even willing to speak to him again, let alone forgive him.

Still, it catches him by surprise when everything goes to shit.

 

* * *

 

Solas’ rotunda is cool and, despite the torches lining the walls, dim in comparison to the sunlight streaming just outside his door. Thom pauses just inside the door and shivers as he lets his eyes adjust, feeling the temperature difference keenly without the weight of his usual over layer of quilted armor. The one he’d been wearing had been burned and the other… well, he wouldn’t put it past Dorian to have burned that one too while his loft was being put back to rights.

He certainly can't find the blighted thing anywhere.

He locates the elven apostate easily enough. Solas, especially within the confines of Skyhold, is a creature of habit. The afternoons and evenings are spent researching, mornings are reserved for painting. He’s beneath the scaffold, paintbrush in hand, touching up something at the bottom of a mural depicting their night at Halamshiral. An experience Thom has absolutely zero desire to repeat. The only redeeming quality to the evening had been the opportunity to take Catheryn in his arms and dance with her. The feel of her swaying against him making the whole night worth it.

_Fix this._

Maker, but he’s trying.

“Solas?” The elf ignores him. Thom sighs, his gut twisting uncomfortably in his chest. Two weeks ago they’d been close. Two battered warriors who bonded over that fact and spent time in conversation and a few too many games of Diamond Back. Now, staring at the lines of Solas’ shoulders as he reaches his paintbrush out Thom knows that he has lost something. And it hurts. “I’m sorry, Solas.”

The elf’s shoulders stiffen slightly, the only indication that he hears Thom’s words as he takes another step into the rotunda.

“I…I don’t know what to do,” Thom admits quietly. A quiet, desperate part of him hopes that Solas will know a way to make everything better. Maker, he blatantly hopes that _asking_ the apostate for advice will be enough to start mending the rift between them.  Surely asking for a lecture will be enough to make him speak. But he doesn’t.  Thom stops in the middle of the rotunda, shoulders slumping. “Say something, Solas.”

The elven apostate straightens from his work and sets paintbrush and the crock of paint down on the nearby worktable in slow, deliberate motions. “There is little to say.” Solas finally speaks and the venom in his voice hits Thom like a physical blow, throwing him backwards. “I assumed we were alike. We’d seen war, knew its terrible costs but understood that it was _necessary_. But there was nothing – _nothing!_ – necessary in what you did.” Calmly he immerses his hands in a basin of water, carefully scrubbing the smears of paint from his fingertips, his movements a stark contrast to the emotion vibrating through his body. “You did not _survive_ death and destruction. You _sowed_ them to feed your own desires.”

“I know _that_ ,” Thom retorts regretfully. His hands are shaking and he can’t make them stop. There's something... something in the lines of the apostate's body that makes him flinch, stumbling backwards several steps before he catches himself and forces himself to stop. Clutching his hands together he wills himself to take a deep breath. “I see it every time I look in a fucking mirror. I _try_ – try to make up for it!”

“By wearing another skin,” Solas judges viciously, the bite of his words tearing at Thom’s flesh. “You ran away rather than face what you had done.” A bark of laughter, angry and violent, rips itself from the elf’s mouth. Thom feels it, the physical sensation of a serrated blade slashing across his skin until he drips blood onto the floor. “ _You wasted your time_!”

“Did I?” It’s out before he can stop it, a bitter, hopeless question.  “I did what I had to do to survive – and it made me better. The man I was? He would have never owned up to his mistakes. He  wouldn’t be _here_ , fighting to fix wrongs for the whole world! Being someone else changed me – it made me a better man. A man that could own his mistakes and try to fix them…”

“By making more?” the elf inquires icily.

Thom flinches. “I didn't mean to,” he whispers.

Solas finally turns to face him and Thom instantly wishes that he hadn’t. Solas, the Solas that he knows, is his friend. He is calm, collected, arrogant, and opinionated – a fierce warrior, methodical researcher, and talented healer.  He is easy to dismiss, easy to forget in a crowd because of his unassuming demeanor and peasant’s clothes. It is what makes it so shocking when he never fails to beat the Inner Circle at Wicked Grace or Diamond Back. It’s what makes the fierce and dizzying games of chess that he plays with Cullen and the Iron Bull so memorable. It's what makes him such a valued team member in battle. He's easy to ignore, easy for the enemy to displace - a mistake they only make once.

There is no trace of that Solas standing before him.

This Solas is utterly unforgettable.

“Being a different man did not let you _be better._ It is _abundantly_ clear that you did not learn your lesson because once again you slip your skin and become someone else. You ran away, again, rather than face what you had done!” Thom takes a step back, unable to stop himself as the shocking silver of Solas’ gaze bores into him. “ _You. Hurt. My._ _Friend_!” The roar of Solas’ anger stuns the entire tower into silence. Even the ravens are quiet beneath the violence of his fury.

Thom opens his mouth to apologize, to explain… _anything_ … but he can’t. He can’t open his mouth. He can’t move – not his hands, his legs, not his head. He can’t move anything. Thom can feel it: a tightness, a heaviness in the air that is cool against his skin. It flexes, tightening as Solas takes a step forward, the enormity of the shadow he casts on the wall eclipsing the artwork that he put there. In moves in the flicker of the torchlight, a living, breathing thing that wraps around the room, filling it up enough there is nothing but the stench of Thom's fear beneath the cold, unbreakable strength of the elf's rage.

Thom inhales sharply, or tries to, but he can’t even do that. He can’t breathe.

 _He will kill me_. The thought flits through his head like one of those impossibly tiny little birds that riddle the lush green landscape of the Emerald Graves, their little wings beating so quickly that the motion renders them nothing more than a blur surrounding their bodies. _And I will have deserved it._

The crushing pressure, the dance of energy along his skin vanishes as suddenly as it appeared. Thom stumbles beneath its loss, gasping for breath as he hits the stone floor, skin bursting at the contact, the wet heat of his own blood slicking his palms.

“You don’t deserve her. You have betrayed the most precious of trusts and _you will never be good enough to earn it back,”_ Solas snarls as he turns away. “You live because she wills it. Now get out of my sight.”

Thom stares for a moment, hands on his knees, and then he does what Solas orders.

He flees.

 

* * *

 

When the shaking in his hands makes him drop his tools for the fifth time in as many minutes, Thom gives up any pretense of trying to work on the rocking horse. Carving, whittling, anything that involves creating something with wood and a blade – it has always been his escape; his way to calm rage and soothe sorrow, to give some structure to his mind while he thinks. When he was young and brash it had been statues of women, perfect idols of heavy breasts and curved hips that he gifted to his friends – or sighed over. Frequently. When he was older and more respectable – a quickly rising member of the Imperial army can’t really be handing out graphically nude statues – he turned to more practical things: chess boards and delicate boxes to hold decks of cards and beautiful things: intricate flowers and birds that he gifted to the women he charmed into his bed. Since… since Callier he has made children’s toys: simple things like whistles and boats and more complex things like toy soldiers, siege engines, castles, and animals- chiefly horses, dogs, and predators like lions and bears though once he had carved a duck at Cole’s request. Since their arrival at Skyhold he has been… tinkering… with larger pieces, now that he has a place to work on them and store them. It’s not much – a couple of cradles for pregnant mothers he notices among the flood of refugees and now the rocking horse. He intends to place it in the covered area near the garden – where most of Skyhold’s children play, safe away from the stores of weapons and practicing soldiers.

If he ever finishes it, that is.

Gripping the edge of the work table until his knuckles turn white he can feel his entire body trembling with … what? Shock, most likely. Grief, since he’s trying to be honest with himself.

He knew, Maker, he _knew_ that Solas would be upset – that he would be angry. Of course he would be. But he had hoped that, given a chance, they could talk things over. He did not expect…

 He’s never been completely comfortable around magic but he’s never thought less of those that have it, never let it impede his relationships with them. Maker, the woman he loves and one of his best friends are mages but… He swallows harshly. He’s never had magic used against him. Not like that. Never has he been rendered so completely helpless.

“ _Maker_ ,” even as it exits his mouth he’s not sure if it’s a curse or a prayer.

Never did he think that he might need to fear Solas.

Dorian, yes. But Catheryn and Dorian’s relationship is public knowledge, their bond so very easy to see. The last person to assault them directly had been Mother Giselle, who had implied that it would better for the Inquisition if Catheryn were not seen with “the Tevinter”. Only Dorian’s calming hand had stayed Catheryn from throwing the Mother out on her ass. Thom had not heard the words said between the two women but he knew, to this day, that Mother Giselle avoids the Inquisitor, flinching away from the younger woman’s presence.

So yes, he had feared Dorian’s reaction. He had expected violence.

But not from Solas.

Catheryn and Solas are friends, certainly, and Solas is a valued advisor - he is called in to the War Council more often than anyone save Cassandra. He has known her and fought by her side since the very beginning of this mess. But he did not think they were _that_ close. Obviously he is wrong. Has it always been this way and he simply did not notice? Or did something… happen…while they were away in the Exalted Plains? They practice the same specialization of magic, he knows. Did they spend more time together than was outwardly visible? Solas likes to frequent the Fade. It wouldn’t be an impossible leap to make to assume that…

A soft knock jerks him from his thoughts and he knows who it is before he turns around. He can smell her on the incoming breeze: sweet and heady, a delicate blend of elfroot, lavender, and ozone that stirs his blood to a boiling point.

 _Catheryn_.

If anything he shakes harder, his heart stuttering to a halt within his chest. “Inquisitor,” he greets gruffly, turning to meet her. The first sight of her never fails to take his breath away. His memory of her loveliness is nothing more than a pale shadow of the real thing. Even if she is clearly still exhausted and…hurt. He wants to shut his eyes and turn away rather than face the sorrow that he knows he marred those beautiful features with but he can’t. 

_Do you see what you've done?_

Her mouth opens and closes several times before she gives her head a little shake and tips it to one side, regarding him thoughtfully. “How shall I refer to you?” Catheryn asks in her throaty, musical tones. “Rainier or Blackwall?”

Thom clears his throat roughly and clenches his hand, the splintered wood biting into his skin. “From you I would have Thom,” he admits quietly, “but… Blackwall will do.” He presses his lips into a thin line and swallows. “I’ve gotten used to it, after all. Thought perhaps we can treat it as less of a name and more of a title. Almost like _Inquisitor_ ,” he murmurs. “Reminds me of what I ought to be.”

Catheryn looks away, her fingers tapping discreetly against the soft leather of her leggings. A nervous habit. Maker, why is _she_ nervous? “Everyone needs something to aspire to,” she finally agrees quietly and he knows that it isn’t what she originally meant to say.

“Exactly. I’m glad you understand,” he says shortly. He looks away too. It hurts to look at her.  She’s even thinner than he remembers, her clothes looser on her torso. Her cheekbones are almost sharp in the heart shaped curves of her face, their lines highlighting the shadows that darken beneath her eyes.

 All he can hear is Solas’ voice.

 _You have betrayed the most precious of trusts and_ _you will never be good enough to earn it back._

They’re quiet for a long moment, only the gentle sounds of the mounts moving about their stalls and talking to one another and the gentle pop and crack of the small fire behind him keeps the silence from becoming completely and utterly awkward.

“Let’s talk about you,” Catheryn says suddenly, whirling on him. “The truth this time.”

Thom rubs a shaking hand over his face and leans against the worktable, afraid that his legs are going to buckle beneath him. “I suppose I owe you that.”

She’s silent for another long moment and then she takes a cautious step towards him. And then another. “So you’re actually Orlesian?”

Thom’s head snaps up so hard that it hurts. Of all the things to ask him… this? This is what she chooses? “No,” he snaps in surprise. “I told you I was from Markham in the Free Marches. I didn’t lie about that. It just – after a while everything was so bloody lifeless, without color. Orlais called to me.” He crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his hands beneath his arms in an effort to hide the way they tremble now. He wouldn’t be able to carry a drink without spilling to save his miserable life.

“Oh,” she nods as if he has answered some vital question about the meaning of life. “So you were a soldier?”

“Yes.” Another clipped reply. He sighs. This shouldn’t be so hard. No doubt she already knows it – Leliana’s not one to skimp on the reports. “I served in the Imperial Army. I distinguished myself, earned the respect and loyalty of my men and then I threw it all away.” He can’t hide the disgust, the loathing. It bubbles over and fills him, the actions of a previous life that will haunt him forever. “All for gold. Just _gold_.”

 _You have betrayed the most precious of trusts and_ _you will never be good enough to earn it back._

Catheryn trembles beneath his words, her tapping fingers tightening into a fist. He reaches out without thought, the need to comfort her instinctive. She’s close enough by now that his fingertips nearly brush against her arm before she flinches, recoiling from his touch. Thom freezes, everything shattering in his chest. He can’t breathe. It’s worse than what Solas did to him. This time all the pressure is behind his ribs, shredding him from the inside out. His hand hangs in the air, trembling, as she turns away.

Maker, what has he done?

 _You have betrayed the most precious of trusts and_ _you will never be good enough to earn it back._

He lets his hand fall and watches her go, stomach heaving. He wants to go after her, wants to touch her and hold her, wants to cradle her to his chest and whisper all the things he’s never been brave enough to say – all the things she deserves to hear. But he can’t. Solas is right. Dorian is too. He can see what he has done.

“D-did you have a family?” she asks hesitantly, rubbing her arms to ward off a chill that he can’t feel. “A wife? Children?” Thom shuts his eyes, any air left in his lungs leaving in a painful punch. Maker, what type of bastard does she think him?

 _The miserable, cowardly type_ , his own mind supplies helpfully. _You left your men. You left your name. Why wouldn’t you leave a family?_

“No. I never married,” he confesses harshly, staring at the floor. “Probably for the best. It seems I’m not cut out for that sort of life.”

“Oh –“

“If I have any children,” he continues ruthlessly, running roughshod over the sudden meekness of her voice, “I don’t know they exist and it’s probably for the best that it stays that way. No one deserves a father like _this_.” Thom motions at himself.

Catheryn inhales sharply. “Oh,” she says quietly. Sadly. “I’m sorry. This is…you obviously don’t want to talk about this. I’m sure everyone has been… bugging you.” She tries to smile and it’s a ghost on her face. “We can… another…” she bites her lip and turns away again. “I’ll let you…” she motions to the rocking horse behind him. “I should return to my duties.”

“As you wish,” Thom tells her softly, sadly. Despite her words he doesn’t think they’ll speak again. Not like this. Not for a long time. Perhaps not ever. “You are, after all, in charge.”

She nods. Already she is nearly gone from the stables, her feet carrying her away from him. She pauses, briefly, in the entrance though she doesn’t turn around. “Goodbye Blac…Thom.”

Thom grips his hands so tightly he can feel his nonexistent nails slicing through already broken skin,fresh blood beading beneath his grip. “Goodbye… Inquisitor.” He watches her go, watches the sway of her hips as she slips across the courtyard and mounts the stairs. People stop her along the way, because of course they do, and he watches her sign no less than half a dozen things before she reaches the tower and slips inside.

 _You have betrayed the most precious of trusts and_ _you will never be good enough to earn it back._

 _No, I won’t,_ he mourns quietly.

 

* * *

 

He’s standing before the fire, breast band in hand, when Dorian finds him. “I heard what happened with Solas. Or most of it. The acoustics could be better sometimes,” the mage mutters. “I’ll talk to him. He’s…”

“…right,” Thom finishes for him, staring at the strip of cloth.

Dorian freezes, his handsome face torn between horror and pain. “No,” he says fiercely. “He’s not.”

Thom snorts. _Yes, he is. You can’t always be right, Dorian._ “Catheryn was just here,” he says instead, turning the strip of cloth over and over. She hates them. Breast bands. Always going on about how they’re too tight and yet complete shit at doing their job.

_“How am I supposed to fight demons when my boobs keep flying all over the place with a fucking mind of their own?”_

Thom shakes his head, dislodging the memory. “She… we tried to talk.”

“And your mood just screams butterflies and wildflowers so I’m assuming that _you_ botched it horribly…”

“She… she was shaking. I tried to touch her. Just to reassure her,” he adds hastily, catching the vicious glint in the ‘vint’s eyes. “Maker, nothing like that. I just…” he trails off and returns his gaze to the cloth. “She flinched, Dorian. Like she expected to be hit.” He forces himself to swallow past the dryness in his mouth, to keep down the bile that twists in his throat. “She reminded me of the homeless curs wandering the street, staving off starving by filching trash and being beaten for it. She’s the most powerful, most beautiful women in the fucking world and I’ve reduced her to a half dead mongrel.”

Dorian lays a hand gently on his shoulder. “She’s stronger than you give her credit for. She’s hurting – hemorrhaging, even. Like in Redcliffe when she had to pull you out of that cell and when she…” Dorian’s eyes are distant, seeing something Thom doesn’t remember living. He shakes his head, sharply. “But she’ll live.”

“She should have let me die.”

“Nonsense,” the mage snaps haughtily. “That, my dear Blackwall, is a wound that would have never healed. This one – this one can be.”

“Yeah,” Thom agrees sadly. “But not by me. She deserves better. She can pardon me and I can… pretend to be a better man but at the end of the day I’m a murder, a liar, and a traitor. I’m not what she needs…”

“ _Kaffas,_ you hairy lummox!” Dorian thunders. “She _loves_ you!”

“She’s young. Half my age. She’ll get over it,” Thom retorts. “I’m not blind. There are others out there that love her if she’ll let them. Better men than me.”

For once Dorian is struck wordless, his mouth gaping like a fish. “You… you can’t really mean that,” he finally sputters.

Thom raises the cloth to his face and allows himself a single moment of weakness, holding it to his nose and inhaling deeply. It smells of her, of him, of _them_. He tosses it on the fire and Dorian lets out a strangled scream, grabbing for it and missing. “I love her, Dorian,” he whispers, finally admitting the words he has not had the courage to say to anyone else, least of all the woman they belong to. “But I’ll destroy her. Some things can’t be fixed.”

It is only after Dorian has left, swearing the entire way, that Thom drops to his knees and reaches into the fire, heedless of the flames that lick along his fingers. It’s all but gone, nothing more than a scrap of singed white cloth that doesn’t even cover the palm of his hand, but he holds it tight. “I’m sorry,” he whispers as he presses his fist to his heart, his other hand covering his face. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Alone, he sobs into bloody, blistered hands covered in ash, the weight of his cowardice swallowing him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That line Blackwall/Thom gives the Inquisitor about not thinking he's cut out for having a healthy relationship/ not wanting to know if he has kids? Totally from the game, changed only slightly to make the conversation flow "better".  
> It only comes up if you're *not* romancing him but it is still a giant kick to the feels every. damn. time.  
> It is also 110% responsible for the existence of this story.


	10. Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Live in my house, I'll be your shelter  
> ...  
> Just slip me on, I'll be your blanket  
> Wherever, whatever I'll be your coat  
> You'll be my king, and I'll be your castle  
> No, you be my queen, and I'll be your moat  
> ...  
> I'll cover you"
> 
> "I'll Cover You" - RENT

She doesn’t know how she makes it to Cullen’s office, but she does. Vaguely, Catheryn is aware of talking to the people that stop her, smiling and answering their questions. She signs several documents and distantly hopes – prays – that she didn’t just accidentally sell the Inquisition to the Avvar or approve a winged nug as the Inquisition’s official emblem. She can’t let them see her like this. The world can’t know that the Inquisitor is falling apart. She’d been doing better these past few days, finally feeling like she had a grip – even if it is a tenuous one – on reality again.

_If I have any children I don’t know they exist and it’s probably for the best that it stays that way,_ his voice mocks in her head.

Cullen is in his office, though his helm is tucked under his arm and his golden hair is a tangle of sweat slicked curls. _Practice maneuvers_ , she thinks dully. He must have just gotten back. “…improving, but they’re still faltering in the face of…” She stumbles in the doorway, wincing as her shoulder clips against the frame. Both men turn towards the low, wounded noise that she can’t keep trapped behind clenched teeth and freeze. “Get out,” Cullen snaps as he rounds on the captain, recovering first.

“B-but, Commander, we haven’t…”

“ _Now!_ ” he orders. The captain takes one look at the thunderous look on the Commander’s face and pales.

“Of course,” he snaps, saluting.

Cullen ignores him, already stripping of his gauntlets and vambrances, tossing them carelessly to the ground as he moves. She stares at the pieces of metal as they bounce and roll across the floor. There’s something important about the movement but she doesn’t know what.  They’re oddly silent. Though maybe that’s just her, she realizes after a moment. She can’t hear anything beyond the rushing in her ears.

“Maker’s breath… _breathe_ , Catheryn!” Cullen’s voice washes over her like a wave and she blinks, sucking in sharply at his words. _Safe_ , she thinks as soon as he touches her. She collapses into his embrace, his arms sturdy and warm around her. “What’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you hurt?” Cullen inquires desperately as he carries her across the room. “Shit, you’re like ice.” He gently sets her in his chair and quickly removes her coat, wrapping it around her. “Be right back,” he murmurs, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze. “Remember to breathe.”

She sucks in another lungful of air as he moves swiftly around the room, shutting and bolting all three doors. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him use the locks. It’s quite possibly the first time all three doors have actually been shut but she’s not sure about that. She inhales again and tightens her fingers on the fabric of his coat. It’s soft and scratchy at the same time, thin yet hefty just like she remembers. It smells of warm metal, armor polish, crushed plants, and sunshine; the fur lining musky with sweat. It smells warm and safe, like Cullen.  She crushes her face into the fur and tries to breathe. It’s hard, so very hard to get the air into her lungs but eventually the fuzziness around the edges of her vision begins to fade and the roaring in her ears dies down enough for her to realize that Cullen is once kneeling at her feet, his hands wrapped around hers, speaking soothingly.

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” she whimpers endlessly, hands convulsing in Cullen’s grip. “I can’t. I can’t. _I can’t_.” She is shaking so hard that the words vibrate in her mouth.

“Shhhh…” Cullen rubs her hands between his. “Catheryn. _Catheryn_.”

She inhales so sharply it hurts, hurts like when that pride demon smashed through her barrier and broke her ribs. The sharp bite of pain is cleansing, a beam of sunlight through an overcast day and she can think again – at least a little. “I _can’t_ ,” she whispers, shutting her eyes as she sags over their joined hands. “Cullen… I just… _I can’t_.”

His lips are soft against her forehead. “You can’t what?”

“Do… _this_ ,” she whispers brokenly. “I… I tried to talk to Blackwall.” She shakes her head, remembering his words. “To _Thom_ and…”

“Did he hurt you?” Cullen asks quickly, his grip tightening as he leans back enough to look at her face. Catheryn shakes her head again. “Did you… _tell_ him?” he asks more gently, his amber gaze searching.

“No.” A shudder ripples through her and she drags another breath into her lungs, swaying in the chair. “I… I planned to,” she confesses softly, shutting her eyes. “If nothing else he deserves to know but… but he was _so_ … and I was so nervous. So I tried to ease my way in and just talk to him… ask him… and he… he…”

_It seems I’m not cut out for that sort of life._

_If I have any children I don’t know they exist and it’s probably for the best that it stays that way_

“Catheryn? What happened?”

She hides her face in the fur of his coat, where it’s safe, where nothing can get her. “He…” she takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “He made it clear that he doesn’t want me – or the baby.”

“But you said…”

“I asked him if he had any family _before_ ,” she whispers, “and he was quick to point out that that sort of life isn’t for him and that if does have any children _out there_ he doesn’t wish to know about them – or for them to know him.”

“Fucking bastard,” Cullen snarls viciously, the profanity jolting Catheryn from her safe spot.

“W-w-what?” she asks blearily, blinking as she stares at the Commander. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up more and lets out a long sigh of his own before replying.

“Nothing. It’s… _nothing_ ,” but his lips are pressed so tightly together that they’ve lost the charming pink they usually possess. “I’m…Maker’s breath, Catheryn, I’m so sorry.”

She can’t help but smile at him with the corner of her mouth. It never fails to surprise her that this man, this warrior who ruled Kirkwall with an iron fist and who runs the army and a great deal of the day-to-day life of the Inquisition is so gentle. “It’s not your fault,” she tells him simply and wearily leans her head against his.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks after a long moment of silence occasionally punctuated by a strangled, gasping sob that she can’t repress. He doesn’t draw attention to them. He just kneels at her feet, their foreheads pressed together as he gently massages the muscles of her hands, easing away the worst of the tremors.

Catheryn swallows. “I don’t know. I can’t tell him. Not now.” She sighs softly.

“Do you…” she can feel Cullen tense against her, feel the moist movement of air as he licks his lips. “Do you want to keep it?” he asks his voice carefully neutral. “I… in the past I’ve… if you needed…” She is both touched and heartbroken that he would offer to assist her in such a matter.

“No.” The firmness of her response stops him instantly. “I know I probably should,” she tells him, lifting her head to stare at the desk – covered in missives and reports – as if it is the source of all of her problems, a puzzle to be figured out. “I’m the Inquisitor. I spend most of my life chasing demons and cleaning up everyone’s mess. I’m in _no_ position to have a baby. It will just… hinder me. But I can’t. I can’t just be rid of it.” She’s crying. Maker, of course she’s crying – her tears running down her face in an endless stream until Cullen gently wipes them away with the edge of his coat. She sniffs. “Am I crazy, Cullen? For even thinking that I might…?” She lets out a shaky, bitter laugh. “It’s _his_ , Cullen. _His_ and _mine_ and it’s the only fucking thing I have left that is _ours_ and I… I …”

“No one will make you do something you don’t want to do,” Cullen tells her firmly. Catheryn wishes she had his confidence. So little of her life is of her own choosing. She didn’t choose to be a mage. She didn’t choose to come to the Conclave. She certainly never would have volunteered to be the Herald or the Inquisitor, to lead the battle against an insane darkspawn magister. She has made these choices her own, that is true, but that in itself is an act of necessity. Of emotional, mental, and physical survival.

“Won’t they?” Catheryn asks quietly and she knows he knows who she means. Leliana, who is so frequently ruthless in the name of their cause. Josephine who is softer, kinder, but no less vicious in her own way.

“I won’t let them.” Staring into his eyes she can’t do anything but believe him. Cullen has that quality. If he says it will all work out then somewhere, some part of her will inevitably believe it for no other reason than _he_ believes it. 

“Thank you.” The relief of a decision made – of _this_ decision made – is so overwhelming that for a moment Catheryn fears that she might pass out. Cullen apparently fears the same thing because his grip on her hands tightens and he calls her attention back to him with a question.

“So what will you do?” he repeats.

“I have to tell them. This isn't exactly a secret that I can keep indefinitely – if Leliana hasn’t ferreted it out already. I’ll have to tell everyone else too.” Catheryn shivers. That is a conversation she is not keen on having. Her life is not her own, not by half, and she is sure that every single member of her inner circle is going to have a vocal opinion about her pregnancy - spoken, if not to her face, than at least to each other. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do that though, without telling _him_. I don’t want him to know,” she reiterates. Their earlier conversation made it clear that he, at the very least, finds the idea of being a father a burden if not outright distasteful. 

Cullen takes a deep breath and looks away. “I – we – could send him away,” he suggests. “He’s an accomplished soldier and a solid tactician. He’d be an asset at any of our forts. I know Leliana would like someone to be a more visible leader at Caer Bronach or he could join Rylen in the Western Approach.”

It’s a thought. One that she hasn’t considered. She’s so used to having him here, with her – to _wanting_ him to be here with her that the idea of sending him away is distasteful. “We could,” she agrees. “But he hates paperwork even more than you do and I’m sure not even the farthest corner of the Hissing Wastes is far enough to escape the news of the Inquisitor’s pregnancy. If we send him away and then he hears… he will wonder.”

“He will wonder anyway,” Cullen points out. “Unless…”

Catheryn raises an eyebrow. “Unless what?” she prods when he doesn’t respond. Cullen’s cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink and he looks way, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. “Cullen?”

“Unless he has reason to believe that he is not the father.”

Catheryn stares. And then stares. And then stares some more, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Come again?”

“If Blackwall – _Thom_ \- believes that…”

She waves her free hand between them, brushing away his words. “No, no… I- I get that. I just… _who_? The rest of Thedas might believe that I’m having a torrid love affair with Dorian but anyone who knows him _at all_ knows that I’m lacking a very important piece of anatomy and that such a thing would never actually happen… Bull would take one for the team but Qunari-Human children are rare and he’s got a _really_ good thing going on with Dorian. I don’t want to mess that up. And Varric…”

“Me,” Cullen interjects quickly. “I could be the father.”

Catheryn blinks. “You…”

The Commander grips the back of his neck and turns away, his cheeks scarlet. “I…uh. Yes. Me. We don’t quite have the cult following that you and Dorian do but there’s always been rumors and they’ve…. Uh. They’ve only increased since we went to Val Royeux and…”

“Andraste’s tits,” Catheryn swears softly. “Why didn’t you say something, Cullen? I… I know you hate that sort of thing. I would have…”

“… stopped playing chess with me when I can’t sleep? Made it through the last two weeks with no one to turn to?” Cullen retorts gently. “No.” He shakes his head. “I prefer to keep my affairs my own, but I knew what I was getting into.”

Catheryn smiles ruefully. “ _I_ didn’t. I’m so used to it with Dorian that I just kind of… forget. I’m sorry.” Cullen forestalls any further apology with a raised hand. “And I can’t… I can’t ask you to do this. Don’t you have someone? A sweetheart in Kirkwall? Someone that’s caught your eye here?”

Cullen’s lip twitches, curling into that little half smile that makes the entire keep swoon. “No. No one in Kirkwall…”

“But what if you find someone? Having a child with the Inquisitor is… is… it’s nearly as binding as those trade documents that Josephine orchestrates! I can’t ask you to give u…”

Cullen lays a hand gently over her lips. “You’re not. Asking, that is,” he corrects gently. “I’m offering.”

“But you could…”

“No.”

“Cullen. You _could_. You’re an intelligent, handsome, wonderful man – you’re one of the most eligible bachelors in Thedas! I can guarantee that you’ve received more marriage proposals in the past week than I have in the past year. What if you…”

“ _I won’t_ ,” he interrupts, sighing loudly. “Maker’s breath, woman! “

“But…”

“No,” he repeats firmly. “I know what I’m asking.” He pauses, his golden eyes flickering over her face. “Is the idea of having… with me… does it bother you that greatly?”

Catheryn can feel her own cheeks turn scarlet. “Um. No,” she finally mutters, looking away. “No it’ not.” In the early days of the Inquisition it had been one of the few things she’d thought about. When she wasn’t trying to not get killed by demons, that is. Not that she’d ever mention it to him. She’s not entirely sure their friendship would survive Cullen knowing that she’d had decidedly wicked thoughts about the him once upon a time.

Cullen exhales sharply. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I just… I don’t want to trap you,” she admits in a rush. She can see it in her mind, sitting there among the glowing green landscape. His stone, weathered and gray, had been behind Blackwall’s and to the right. _Being trapped_ , the inscription had read and she alone among those with her had known that it hadn’t meant a fear of tight spaces.

Cullen squeezes her hand, pressing their flesh together until she looks back to him. “You’re not,” he reassures quietly: a promise, a vow. “Catheryn, will you let me be father to your child?” Catheryn can’t speak past the sudden well of emotion blocking her throat so she nods instead, tears slipping down her cheeks. This time he soothes them away with his hands, his fingers gentle against her cheeks. “Good.” He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Now, I’m going to send for some food and you will eat and _then_ you’re going to take a nap until it’s time to head to the War Room.”

Catheryn smiles and lays her head on his shoulder, relaxing against his solid, comforting presence. “Bossy, I see,” she murmurs and can feel his smile against the top of her head.

 

* * *

 

Of all the ways Cullen has imagined the Inquisitor in his bed for the first time, this isn’t one of them.

Of course, given their sleeping arrangements on the return trip from Val Royeux this isn’t _technically_ the first time she’s been in his bed. Just the first time that she’s in his _actual_ bed – not that he manages to sleep there very often. Still, he has always imagined this day with less distress and more pleasure – no tears and a great deal more screa…

 “Maker’s breath, Rutherford,” he growls out loud, disgusted with himself. “Now is _not_ the time.”

Apparently he can add _lecherous bastard_ to his long list of defects. Maker, the point is that he has long since given up on the idea that Catheryn would ever be in his bed. And Andraste preserve him, he would have never wished for it under these circumstances. Still, he can’t deny that she is beautiful there, curled beneath the light cotton sheets with his pillow clutched to her tear-stained face. _She belongs there_ , his heart supplies treacherously, giving word to the rush of possessiveness that warms his body.

The irony of the fact that everyone in the world is going to think the same thing and it’s not actually going to be true is not lost on him. At all.

He never meant to fall in love with Catheryn Trevelyan. The list of reasons why he shouldn’t have is a mile long. Not that any of them ever gave him anything more than a momentary pause. Not that his heart had ever had a chance at resisting her. He’d been attracted to her from the very first time he’d seen her fighting through the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and it had only gotten worse from there. An unlikely friendship had blossomed between them and he had found himself flirting shamelessly with her as the weeks turned into months.

_Him_. Cullen Stanton Rutherford, who possesses about as much subtly as a brick to the face, had found himself flirting with an ease that had been positively terrifying. Even if he did blush every blighted time.

 He wanted – _wants_ – her more than he has ever desired anything in his life.

A woman such as she rarely has just one admirer though, and Warden Blackwall had been chivalrous and open with his desire. And a great deal smoother.

A better man. She is an impossible, stubborn woman and the dearest of his friends. But why would she settle for a broken ex-Templar who can’t sleep through the night and who is a _recovering_ lyrium addict - r _ecovering_ , thought with the heaviest of sarcasm because he knows there is no escaping the hooks the chantry set in him with that little blue bottle. He will be fighting it for the rest of his life – when there is a better man who is worthy of her, who clearly desires her just as Cullen does?

Smoothing a wayward strand of hair away from her face Cullen wonders if he would have fought harder for her if he had known the secrets that ‘Warden Blackwall’ kept. If he had known that Blackwall was just as broken and unworthy as he is. Cullen has never assassinated anyone but his crimes are just as dark, a stain upon his soul that he will never escape.

Both of them, it appears, are supremely unworthy of the woman they have fallen in love with.

The only difference is that Catheryn knows all of his misdeeds, all of his secrets save for one: the fact that he is in love with her.

A smile tugs at his lips as he remembers her _concern_ , so heavy and blatant that he could taste it on his tongue, over the idea that she might stop him from _finding someone_. As if she hasn’t already been doing that for nearly two years.

“You see everyone so well,” he tells her, amused “even me - except in this. In this you are blind.”

_Friendzoned_ , Dorian had diagnosed critically. _The depth and connection of your friendship means so much to her that it blinds her to your… other feelings_. _It’s disgusting, really._

Cullen shakes his head at the ironic absurdity of the whole situation and presses his lips against her head. “I will never abandon you,” he vows.

Down in his office he surveys the remains of their lunch and sighs. Sera would be appalled at the amount of food left on the plates. Maker, he’s appalled but he’s not surprised either. Sighing, he begins to clean off the surface of his desk so that he can get at the paperwork underneath. There are reports that he needs to go over before meeting with the rest of the War Council this evening and he really does need to finish speaking with Captain Damien about today’s practice maneuvers.

_I wonder if he will object to meeting in the Barracks so that we don’t disturb…_ Cullen trails off, the thoughts of the last five minutes catching up with him.  They were normal, deflective thoughts. Ways to minimize the gossip that would undoubtedly spring from the Inquisitor and the Commander locking themselves in his office for a lengthy period of time. Except he’s not supposed to minimizing gossip anymore. In fact, for this to work, he’ll have to _encourage_ it.

Cullen swallows and grips the back of his neck so tightly that he knows he’s going to have a bruise there later.

What did the gossips of Skyhold actually know?

They knew that Catheryn and Blackwall had been involved.

They knew that Blackwall had been imprisoned and subsequently transferred and pardoned over the last two weeks.

They knew that the Commander and the Inquisitor frequently spent time together late at night. Occasionally even all night.

They knew that the Commander had been hovering closer since Blackwall had been revealed as Thom Rainier – that he came and went from the Inquisitor’s quarters at odd hours.

No one but the inner circle knew exactly what happened the day Blackwall had been judged, only the outcome. Leliana and the Iron Bull had seen to that. The Inquisitor had then avoided her lover until today when she met with him briefly and then came straight to his office where he proceeds to immediately throw everyone else out, lock the doors, and send for lunch.

Can he make them believe that he and the Inquisitor have been sleeping together for a while? Yes, Cullen realizes. He can.

This would never work if he had needed to manufacture feelings from thin air and simply play a role. Cullen knows that he’s never been anything but bloody horrible at the Game. But he’s not playing a role. This is not Halamshiral – and he survived that just fine, if uncomfortably. He loves the woman sleeping in his bed and there isn’t anything that he wouldn’t do for her – and that truth will make any lie that he has to tell believable.

And, if by some freak of chance, she asks him to dance again he’ll have his head out of his ass and fucking say _yes_.

Cullen pauses before the stand of his armor, staring at the pieces he’d removed earlier. He never removes his armor. Not while he is awake. But he had removed it for her, to better be able to hold her without it hurting her. He had done it without thinking. The member of the kitchen staff that had brought lunch had noticed, her eyes growing wide. “This,” he murmurs to himself, withdrawing his hand. “This is where I begin.”

Deliberately he strips out of the rest of his armor and scatters it, quietly, across the floor because he knows that as soon as he leaves whichever _messenger_ Leliana has posted outside of his door will stick his or her head in and peak. He removes his shirt and wrings it between his hands a few times, creasing the soft, limp cotton before throwing it back on. He doesn’t bother tucking it in. His hair is unruly, he knows, from being trapped in the heat and humidity of his helm but he runs a hand through it anyway, ensuring the tight curls are nothing but chaos on the top of his head. At the last minute he stops and with a murmured, “In for a penny…” he loosens the ties on his breeches and then walks out the door.

“Jim!” Leliana’s spy jumps nearly a foot in the air at Cullen’s bark, his eyes unbelievably wide as he stares at the Commander. “The Inquisitor is sleeping. Don’t let anyone disturb her,” he orders and he doesn’t have to pretend to make his voice low and thick with threat and possession.  Jim’s eyes , if anything, get wider.

“Uh. Y-y-yes, ser. Commander. Ser,” he repeats weakly, saluting.

Cullen represses a growl, narrowly, and stalks down the stairs.

It is odd walking around in daylight without the weight of his armor. He feels naked and vulnerable. More than that he feels cold, even in the heat of the sun, withdrawals making him feel halfway to hypothermia even while his blood bubbles with a fever that never ends. Without the armor it takes people longer to recognize him but they all do, usually a heartbeat after he passes them which leads to a domino like effect of gaping stares that follow in his wake. A few try to talk to him but he ignores them, jaw clenched, and makes his way to the stables.

Blackwall is standing at his worktable, his hands resting on top of the rocking horse he has been working on for some time. The rest of him is bowed, unmoving and it doesn’t take a trained eye to see that the man is broken. Cullen pushes down the small flower of empathy that blooms in his heart and recalls Catheryn – sassy, impossible, stubborn Catheryn with a spirit that glows like a beacon – and what all _this_ has done to her.

He doesn’t have to pretend to be angry, to despise the man standing before him. All Cullen has to do is ignore the fact that he understands him.

It is easy enough.

Blackwall notices him when he’s halfway across the barn, his warrior’s training kicking in. “Cullen…” It’s not a greeting. It almost sounds like a prayer and Cullen answers it the only way that he can. He tightens his fist and punches Blackwall in the face.

The blow takes him square in the jaw and Blackwall goes down, eyes watering beneath the force of it, the unmistakable _crack_ of bone piercing the air.

“There are many things I could – and did – forgive,” Cullen tells him quietly, distantly aware of Master Dennet and others – some stablehands, some not – beginning to gather a seemingly safe distance away.  “What you’ve done to her is not one of them. Stay away from her, Thom,” Cullen growls. “She’s not yours anymore.”

_I’m sorry, my friend,_ he adds silently, _but this is no longer about you._

He leaves, stepping around Master Dennet who is too shocked to move, and does not look back.


	11. The Truth of the Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your response to the last chapter! All of the comments and kudos totally made my day and I have it on good authority that I walked around with a ridiculous grin on my face.  
>  My muse also hoards them a like a dragon with its gold.

Never before has she noticed just how _big_ the doors to the War Room are. They’re absolutely massive.  _Who exactly lived in Skyhold the first time around – giants?_

"What?”

Maker, she said that last bit out loud, didn’t she? “Sorry. I was just speculating. Because of the door size,” Catheryn explains, motioning at the doors in question. “I suppose I’m stalling,” she adds quietly. “I’ve faced down an archdemon and walked in the Fade. Physically. _Twice_. And I’m more terrified of walking into that room than I was in either of those scenarios.” Catheryn presses her lips together and glares at the thick wooden doors. She doesn’t like being afraid – especially of her friends.

“I’m right here,” Cullen reminds her gently. His gloved hands are warm against the bare skin of her arm and she fights the urge to just turn into his embrace and let him shelter her. She’s the Inquisitor. She can’t afford to hide behind anyone. Not even for this. Not anymore. “It will be alright.” His amber eyes shimmer gold in the last rays of sunlight streaming through the hole in the wall that she swears, one of these days, they’ll actually finish fixing. The Lion of Ferelden some call him. He hates it because it creates an unconscious association with the Orlesian Imperial family. He much prefers the marabi himself. Still, Catheryn can’t help but agree as she looks at him, bathed in the fiery rays of the setting sun that turn him into a study of golds and reds, the fur fringe of his coat ringing his face like a mane.

Catheryn nods and opens the door.

“…could have possessed him to do it!”

“The Commander is a reasonable man,” Leliana’s voice replies calmly. “I’m sure there is a… Inquisitor, Commander – thank you for joining us.” The spymaster arches an eyebrow with delicate precision as she stares at them, calm eyes taking in everything. Catheryn represses the shiver that threatens to engulf her at the piercing look and swallows nervously.

 _Archdemon_ , she reminds herself. _The Fade. Dragons. The Empress of Fucking Orlais._

“Sorry for holding things up,” she apologizes smoothly as she approaches the table. Cullen’s presence is solid and reassuring and her side and she can’t stifle the gratitude that swells in her heart when he holds that position instead of assuming his customary place across the table from her. Leliana’s eyes widen slightly and Josephine lets out a little _oh_. The two women exchange a pointed, meaningful look. Catheryn watches the whole thing warily because something is _definitely_ up. The last time she’d noticed them trying to communicate silently like this she’d wound up standing in front of a crowd of people hoisting a big ass sword in the air and trying to not fall over. “Before we begin…” she drawls, calling their attention back to her. “There’s something that you two need to know.”

The implication that the Commander already knows is not lost on either of them and he shifts on the balls of his feet, nervous beneath the sudden weight of their combined gaze.

“But of course, Inquisitor,” Josephine beams, still eyeing Cullen suspiciously. “We can certainly spare a few minutes.”

Catheryn fights the urge to run a hand over her face and sigh. Here, in the War Room, is one of the places in Skyhold where she feels most like herself. Where she can sigh and curse and generally lose her temper without the world going to shit. Here she lets herself be Catheryn Trevelyan but today she must be the Inquisitor. _No weakness_ , she tells herself and then throws herself in.

The first time she said it had been a relief – it had made it real, somehow, made it something more than a nauseated delirium that existed between she and Cole. It had been hard to say: a punch, a weapon, a way to make Cullen _understand_. The second time is easier… and harder. Easier because it is real – because despite the way her body expels nearly everything she puts in it her clothing is starting to get a little tight around the abdomen and sleeping on her stomach is beginning to become uncomfortable. Harder because it is real and she _wants_ it, wants it with an intensity that frightens her, and she is unsure whether the other two women in the room will be friend or foe on this matter. The fact that they might be become _the enemy_ terrifies the shit out of her.

“I’m pregnant.”

Josephine is shocked, her plump lips hanging in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise and her eyes wider than the saucers underneath the delicate little tea cups she has sitting off to the side, waiting for them. Even Leliana is surprised – a fact that surprises Catheryn. Prior to the moment that she saw the genuine shock flit across her spymaster’s face she would have bet good money that Leliana already knew and was keeping the knowledge close until it would be needed – keeping this secret just like she had kept her knowledge on Thom Rainier: ready and waiting but never revealing.

Apparently, had she made that bet, she would coughing up money into Varric’s outstretched hand.

“ _That_ is why you did it,” Leliana breathes in sudden understanding as she stares past Catheryn to Cullen, who crosses his arms across his chest defensively.

“Are you the father?” Josephine blurts out excitedly and then claps a hand across her mouth. “Forgive me. That is…”

“Yes,” Cullen answers firmly at the same time as Catheryn sighs, “No.”

They stare at each other, ignoring the scandalized giggles that erupt across the table. “I thought we decided that _I_ was the father,” Cullen points out impatiently. Catheryn doesn’t miss the way that Leliana’s eyebrows shoot up under her hood or the fact that Josephine chokes.

Catheryn touches his arm gently. “We did,” she assures, startled by the lost look she can see in his eyes. “But Leliana and Josephine at least deserve the truth.” She takes a deep breath and turns to them. “The child is Thom Rainier’s.”

Josephine squeals like a stuck nug and drops her notes.

“Oh, pardon me,” she exclaims, her cheeks bright red as she drops to her knees to gather them up again. “That was… unprofessional. But Inquisitor…” she trails off, biting back the words that try to leap off her tongue. Catheryn appreciates the gesture, though she finishes asking the question anyway.

“… why is Cullen claiming to be father if it’s really Thom’s?”

Josephine nods, grateful for her bluntness. “Ah, yes. Inquisitor.”

“There are quite a number of valid reasons,” Leliana murmurs. The news of Catheryn’s pregnancy has surprised her. The identity of the father has not – a fact that comforts Catheryn. She’d be more than a little worried if she managed to surprise her spymaster twice in the space of a few minutes. “Not the least of which is the very messy, very public incident Captain Rainier just put us through.”

Catheryn snorts. The idea of hiding her child’s paternity because his – or her – father is a notorious traitor hadn’t even occurred to her. “I wouldn’t...” she begins, exasperated at the public relations fueled assumption.

“Rainier has made it perfectly clear that he is not interested in being a father,” Cullen growls, his anger prowling around the edges of the room like some wild, dangerous thing as he interrupts.  Catheryn unconsciously reaches out and lays her hand over his, rubbing her thumb over his leather clad fist in slow, soothing strokes. He quiets slightly beneath her touch, leaning into it.

“Surely he didn’t turn you away!” comes Josephine’s horrified gasp.

The thick parchment of the map is soft and smooth beneath her finger as she traces the ridges of the Frostback Basin. “No. Thom doesn’t know,” she informs the room softly, “and I do not wish him to. What Cullen meant is that Thom is not interested in the burden of being a parent. He expressly wished that, should he have any children, none of them know him.”

“But that is…”

“Cold,” Leliana observes. “Unexpectedly cold of him. Even now.” Catheryn shrugs, her fingers trembling as she wraps them around the marker of Cullen’s that had been sitting in the Frostbacks marking a pass out of the Fallow Mire.

_Well, you know how Cullen’s markers are all…_

“…was so certain you two would be able to patch things up. The way you look at each other… I can’t believe I owe Varric mo…!” Leliana clears her throat meaningfully and Josephine falls silent.

“Maker’s breath… Varric is running a _bet_ over their relationship?”

“It’s alright, Cullen,” Catheryn reassures. “It’s nothing personal. Varric is Skyhold’s bookie. He has bets running on just about everything. For instance, I have ten pieces of gold down on the next place Bull and Dorian are caught having sex and just the other day half the tavern was laying bets on whether or not Sera could drop a jar of bees on Morrigan without the witch noticing.”

“Still, you’re the Inquisitor and your relationships…”

“… are the talk of all of Thedas,” she finishes gently. “I tried to warn you. Want to rescind your offer?”

Cullen scowls, his golden eyes narrowing. “No.” A tension she hadn’t known she was harboring loosens in her chest and Catheryn takes a deep, stuttering breath and the sudden, overwhelming surge of relief makes her vision go blurry. “I told you I’d never leave you,” Cullen reminds her as she reflexively tightens her hand over his fist. “I keep my promises.” It’s not until he says the words that she identifies the tension, the tightness with a vice like grip around her internal organs. _Fear_. 

A little corner of the fade, fenced in and abandoned, with a dozen various crumbling headstones laid out in a neat rows – _“It hardly seems fair that you get to read all of our darkest terrors, lovely,”_ Dorian had drawled, his voice strained with the terror that choked them. “ _Isn’t it supposed to be: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”_

Stone, rough and crumbling, catching against her fingers as she traced their names – _“Don’t be an asshole,”_ Bull had bit out, glaring at his own headstone. _“This_ is _her fear: all of us dead and gone while she’s still standing.”_

Damn Ben Hassarath.

“That’s so ro… admirable… of you, Commander,” Josephine sighs across the table, snapping Catheryn out of her reverie. “But…” The tone of the Ambassador’s voice makes all the hairs on Catheryn’s arms stand on end, the pit of her gut and the nape of her neck tingling with that first rush of adrenaline.

“Don’t bother, Josie. Clearly the Inquisitor has no intention of being rid of the child – there wouldn’t be a plan for the child’s paternity if she was,” Leliana breaks in.

Catheryn stiffens, fingers curling in unconscious search for her staff. “Is that going to be a problem?” she asks carefully, looking to Leliana. The Ambassador might have tried to pose the question but it is the spymaster that is the dangerous one. Leliana grins, her teeth a harsh flash of white against pink lips.

“Depends,” she answers shortly.

“I’m a mage,” Catheryn finally answers, her voice dry. “I don’t need to be able to do a backflip to kill someone. Most of my killing is done from a nice safe distance with lightning bolts and fire. And this…” she holds up her hand, the mark sputtering against the flesh of her palm as if it could sense that it is being talked about. “This is nothing more than a stray bit of powerful magic stitched to my skin. I suspect it would work even if I were dead.” Leliana is still skeptical and Catheryn sighs. “Look at me _Nightingale_ – do you imagine that having a child will make me _soft_? That a baby at my breast will make me pull my punches when it comes time to face Corypheus?”

Catheryn meets Leliana’s cool blue gaze and doesn’t flinch beneath the scrutiny. Instead she pulls the mask of Inquisitor aside and lets her friend get a real, true look at her. At the despair and rage that still simmer at the fringes of her soul. At the panic – gasping and real – that Thom’s abandonment has triggered. At the weary fear – worn and familiar – that she carries on her shoulders: a tally of all the dead and a repository of all the hopes and dreams that rest on her success. She is stretched thin and weary but she is not broken, nor is she done.

So little in her life has been by her own choice. She didn’t choose to be a mage and she didn’t choose for her life to go up in flames when the war between mages and Templars spread to her circle, forcing her to flee amidst ashes and ruin or die beneath a Templar’s misguided convictions. She certainly didn’t stand up and volunteer to be the lone survive of the Conclave. She never asked to be a hero, to face down demons, darkspawn, and an archdemon. She certainly didn’t ask to be the only person on the face of the earth who can save them from a mad magister bent on making himself their new god. She hasn't asked for – or wanted – any of it but it has been given to her nonetheless and she has owned it. She has made it her life, let it shape Catheryn Trevelyan into the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor. 

And amidst all the death and destruction that consumes the world she has found measures of happiness. Friends and family that hold her close and keep her from falling apart. People that she loves and will defend to her very last breath. Among the ruins of the world that was she is finding herself and what she wants.

The world will have her, there is no doubt, but she will have this.

“No,” Leliana admits quietly, looking down. “It won’t, will it? A devoted mother is a ferocious thing.” Her words settle over the room: a passed judgement that locks away words or choices that might have been made – an acknowledgement, a ceding to Catheryn’s wishes.

“Is there anything else you want to say on the matter before we return to our scheduled agenda?” Catheryn asks of the room. “Because now’s the time.” Her three advisors are shockingly silent. “Well then. Josephine, I’m sure you’ve got a plan outlined somewhere to deal with me being pregnant. Please make a note to come speak with me later about it.”

“Inquisitor! I…” Catheryn levels a knowing look at the Ambassador, silencing her protests. She knows Josephine too well. There have been a fair number of marriage proposals – not as many as for the Commander but still enough – and a few of them had no doubt caught Josephine’s interest despite Catheryn’s outright refusal of any and all offers for her hand. No doubt the crafty Antivan had sample marriage contracts and an outline of how to handle everything from marriage to pregnancy to divorce tucked away in a secret drawer somewhere. “Of course. I shall consult my schedule and get back to you.”

“I will instruct some of my most trusted to be a little loose with their tongues in regard to you and the Commander,” Leliana adds. “Though truthfully, the Commander’s actions this afternoon have done much to ensure that no one will doubt the announcement that he is the babe’s father. Especially when added to the rumors that are already in place.”

That is the third time since she entered the War Room that one of the other women has made some sort of insinuation about the Commander. “What did you do?” she asks him.

“You mean you don’t know?” Josephine asks, apparently delighted by this turn of events.

“Um. No… I… uh… may have been taking a nap this afternoon,” Catheryn confesses, flushing a little.

“Well, the Commander apparently felt the need to …” Josephine begins early, clutching the jumbled mess of her notes to her chest.

“I punched Rainier,” Cullen dismisses shortly. “It needed to be done.”

“To be sure,” Leliana agrees, eyes glinting. She has never tolerated traitors well. “But I would hardly dismiss it as a mere _punching_.”

“Maker’s breath, why not? It’s exactly what I did!”

“You _broke_ the man’s _jaw…”_

“… with a bloody _punch_!”

“…while in a delightful state of undress. I’m told the entire courtyard was swooning…”

“Lord Cyril is particularly distressed that our meeting caused him to miss such an event. He’s made no less than six proposals for your hand since Halamshiral…”

“I was _dressed_!” Cullen protests hotly.

 “My dear Commander, when no one sees you outside of your armor for nigh on two years it can hardly be surprising that sight of you in nothing but your breeches and an undershirt causes a scandal.”

“Maker’s…” the Commander devolves into several choice curses that would no doubt shock his soldiers nearly as much as his apparent state of undress. While he broke Thom’s jaw.

“Cullen…” The curses stop and he looks down at her, his familiar gaze sweeping over her face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, apparently deciding that it is necessary. “I…”

Catheryn covers his mouth with her hand. “You did that?” she asks quietly. “For me?”

His face softens, his lips twitching behind her fingers. “Of course,” he whispers, his answered muffled by her flesh. Slowly she drops her hand, ready to slam it back up in the event that he tries to apologize again. “How could I not? You were so… Maker, Catheryn. I almost could kill him for what he’s done to you. What he’s done to all of us.” He swallows and looks away, unable or unwilling to meet her gaze. “I promised myself that I would leave my anger and hatred behind in Kirkwall, that I would be a better man. I like to think that I have succeeded, mostly, but I realized this afternoon that in this instance you would be better served by fury than by reason.”

“Oh, Cullen, you didn’t…”

“I did,” he insists quietly. “If you… if people are to believe that you carry my child then I needed to give them _reason_ to believe it. While I may have found a measure of control and patience over the past several years I would not see my lover in such pain and let it stand without contest,” he admits and Catheryn can feel herself blush at his tender, honest words. “Whatever people believe – that I am your consolation or that Thom was just a fling or some part of a secret _ménage a trois_ – I would have them have the truth as far as I can give it. I will not leave you and I will not play you, or this,” he motions between them, “false.”

For a moment Catheryn is so overwhelmed by gratitude and affection that her mouth flops about like a fish out of water, unsure of what to say or do. She wants very suddenly and very badly to kiss him.

It’s not the first time she’s been nearly overwhelmed by the desire to do so. No, _that_ had happened in Haven, less than a week of conscious time into her new existence as Herald of Andraste. She’d, after much thought and a fortifying shot of the cheapest swill Flissa had kept behind the bar, put on her big girl panties and grabbed the bull by the horns – or, more aptly, the lion by the tail – and gone to speak with the Commander of the newly founded Inquisition’s forces.  From what she had been able to tell in their limited interactions so far he was talented, steady, and very, very handsome.

He also just happened to be Cullen Rutherford: _former_ Night – Captain of Kirkwall and unofficial bogeyman to mages everywhere.

But he’d been adorable and charming, enthusiastic and optimistic as he spoke about the troops, so caught up in his excitement that he’d managed to speak for a full fifteen minutes while she just _stared_ at him before he’d noticed.

Oh, he’d apologized and she – so stunned by this vision of him that didn’t match up _at all_ to the image she’d built in her head – had defaulted to _I’m dealing with a Templar_ mode… and flirted.

And the poor man had turned bright pink and practically swallowed his own tongue.

 _That_ had been the first time that she’d wanted to kiss him – the first and most certainly not the last.

It’s been a while though, since she has felt that longing sweep through her. It is enough that he is her friend, one of the deepest and truest, and even if Blackwall – _Thom_ \- hadn’t been in the picture she’s not sure that she could have pressed their slowly budding relationship. Not with the knowledge of his withdrawal and the shadow of what had happened to him at Kinloch hanging over their heads. It would have seemed too cruel.

But here she is – pregnant with another man’s child, no less – and about half a second away from yanking his head down and kissing him until she cant breathe.

  _Keep it together, Trevelyan_ , she reminds herself. _Just cause you think he’s pretty and you’re all hormonal doesn’t give you permission to be stupid. Don’t fuck this up._

So instead of throwing herself into his arms she smiles and murmurs, “Thank you,” and means it with every beat of her heart.

 

* * *

 

She tells all of the Inner Circle, save for Thom and though she doesn't spell it out as bluntly as she did with Leliana an Josephine no doubt they know the whole truth of things. They know her best, after all. They are her friends, her loved ones, her _family_ – they live with her, fight with her, and quite possibly might die for her. It would be unfair for her to keep this a secret from them any longer: a betrayal of the relationships she had worked so hard to build. She will not go into the clusterfuck that is Emprise du Lion with any secrets between her and those that count on her. Leliana, Cole, and Cullen help her round them up – pulling them from their beds and gathering them in the War Room in the darkest hours of the night.

When she tells them it is with Cullen at her back, his fingers threaded through hers under the safety of the table, and Leliana watching from the shadows in the corner of the room. Despite the hour and the diplomats waiting for her as soon as the sun rises Josephine is sitting at her desk: a silent sentry to what is going on within.

Their reactions are varied.

Cole, the Iron Bull, and Solas are blatantly unsurprised. Cole, obviously, has always known. He knew before she did. The Iron Bull… well, Catheryn can practically hear the silent “ _Ben-Hassarath, remember_?” as he smirks in her direction.  Solas’ knowledge surprises her. No. Her lack of surprise at his knowledge surprises her. She doesn’t know how he knows – perhaps something he picked up in the Fade? – but there is no judgement on his face, nothing but calm acceptance. Though whether that is a true mirror of his feelings or simply a mask she is not quite sure.

Vivienne, on the other hand, is anything but calm. The ice queen finally loses her cool at Catheryn’s announcement. She doesn’t really pay attention to the words that Madame de Fer is spouting at her. She knew the gist of them long before they ever existed in the other mage’s mouth. The barrage continues for several minutes, Cullen restrained only by the ever tightening grip Catheryn exerts on his hand. It is, perhaps not surprisingly, Bull who silences her with the heavy weight of his hand on her arm.

“Can you honestly say that, if offered, you would refuse one last chance to carry Bastien’s child?" The Qunari demands, the expression on his face enough to make even the strongest of men cower. "Respectfully, this is not about you, ma’am.” Surprisingly, she listens.

Varric is not surprised. Not exactly. He has a thoughtful look on his face, a look that says that someone has just gifted him another piece of the puzzle that he’s working on.

Cassandra is flushed, her hands clasped over her heart, clearly torn between a warrior’s practicality and her romantic’s heart.

The look on Sera’s face is utterly spectacular and completely indescribable. Catheryn’s only seen it once before – when the devious little archer got hit with a stray bottle of Antivan Fire. “Shite,” she finally swears but she’s smiling and shaking her head while she does it. “Fucking… shiteballs. Trust you to get knocked up while you’re supposed to be savin’ the world. Just don’t go throwing up on my shoes, yeah?” And Catheryn knows that everything is going to be okay.

It is only when she meets Dorian’s gaze that she realizes how worried she is, how afraid that her closest of friends will abandon her now.  The Tevinter is staring at her, poleaxed, the curls of his mustache quivering as his mouth works wordlessly. “Dorian?” she asks cautiously.

Dorian is graceful. He’s a dancer and a gymnast. He likes to waltz while he fights, trying not to laugh when Bull fits the lyrics of bawdy tavern songs to whatever musical masterpiece the other man is humming as he moves. He’s not graceful now. Not at all. He scrambles over the top of the war table, sending the markers and notes flying in complete disarray. “Lovely, lovely, lovely,” he whispers over and over, gathering her into her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would have… I would…” he shakes his head.

“It’s alright, Dorian. I’m alright,” Catheryn murmurs into the curve of his neck. Beneath the smells of sex and Bull she can smell him – the expensive spice of the cologne he prefers and the musky tang of his own skin. She rests her head against his collarbone and lets him hold her, Cullen’s fingers still entwined with hers.

“You’ll be a wonderful mother,” he whispers into her hair. “And, if I do say so myself, I shall make a perfectly dashing Uncle Dorian.”

Pure, unfiltered joy bubbles up inside of her at the image his words call to mind – of Dorian with his arms curved around the exhausted form of her child, rocking the babe to sleep as he has so often comforted her. Of Bull and the Chargers presenting a mini sword and shield. Of Cassandra blushing guilty when she is caught reading poetry over the bassinet.  Varric teaching a toddler how to throw dice. All of that and a more, dozens, hundreds of possibilities play out behind her eyelids.

“Yes, you will,” she agrees as the tears slip down her cheeks. “You will be the very best Uncle the world has ever seen.”

 “Of course,” he sniffs arrogantly as he tightens his grip. “May I also suggest the name _Dorian_?”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s easy afterwards.

That surprises him. It should be hard. After all it requires him to take his feelings public and he doesn’t even handle his feelings well in private. He doesn’t mind leading the army – he’s a soldier, after all, and he’s good at it but he doesn’t like his private life aired like yesterday’s laundry. But courting Catheryn is easy.

The gossip is instant and relentless, voices scarcely bothering to lower themselves to discreet whispers as he passes by. It should bother him. It doesn’t. If anything he can feel a flush of pleasure at every knowing – or even lewd – look he is given, at every blush and fluster of giggles that are hidden behind raised hands.  He hates being the center of gossip but he can’t help but feel pleased that there is something for them to gossip about.

It’s easy to take her hand as they tour the battlements, checking on the sentries and discussing the latest reports out of Emprise and how they affect the Inquisitor’s plans. It’s easy to lay his hands on her shoulders and draw his thumbs along the tension in her neck as they pour over maps and diplomatic correspondence. It’s easy to steady her with a hand splayed across her lower back as she leans across the War Table and argues fiercely with Josephine about the delicate balance of power that exists in Val Royeux.

Leliana smirks knowingly at him from beneath her hood. He returns the look, his face as blank as he can make it, and doesn’t move his hand.  The Nightingale’s smile widens.

It’s easy to stop by the kitchens in the morning and pick up her breakfast, encouraging her to eat just as she once – and still frequently does – encouraged him. It’s easy to pull her into his lap when the tavern grows too crowded and tempt her with morsels shamelessly selected not only from his plate but from Bull’s, Sera’s, and Krem’s as well.  She blushes hotly but can’t look away when he offers her food with his own hand, her tongue tracing the path the juice takes down the length of his finger. Sera laughs hysterically and falls from her stool and Iron Bull beams proudly and indulgently cuts another slice from the peach.

 It’s easy to send her Antivan chocolates – pilfered from Josephine’s private stash - when her meetings run long. It’s easy to insert his body between her and those lobbying for a moment of her time. It’s easy to offer himself up as sacrifice to the hungry wolves of politics in her stead.  It’s all too easy to go in search of her when she fails to return to their – _her_ – bed and find her in the library, curled up in chair and half buried among stacks of books and a chaotic flurry of notes.

Dorian looks on affectionately, his mustache quivering salaciously as Cullen gently extracts her from the chair and hoists her into his arms. He doesn’t bother to hide the kiss he presses to her forehead and Dorian looks so pleased that Cullen half expects him to go off like the firework for which Varric has named him.

It frightens him how easily he forgets that this isn’t real – not for her. Not in the way it is for him.

That doesn’t stop him from laying her in the bed and sliding in behind her, his hand settling over hers as it cups her abdomen.

It’s easy to arrange sparring sessions with others in the Inner Circle when she brings up her desire to begin practicing fighting with more limited movement. Despite her words to Leliana, Catheryn has never been a stand-and-cast sort of mage. She moves. Not as flamboyantly as Dorian but she dances, twirling around the edges of battle in movements he can see influenced by the dancing lessons she was given before her magic made itself known. And, when Cassandra surprises everyone watching by pulling her punches more than she’s supposed to, it’s surprisingly easy to vault the fence and take the sword and shield from the Seeker’s surprised hands. The smile on Catheryn’s face – delighted and bright, her eyes shining with mischief as she tips her staff in greeting – that alone is worth it.

It’s easy to spar with her, so easy, and he remembers why he stopped. They used to spar often, the two of them, out on the frozen lake or in a nearby clearing when the Inquisition still resided in Haven. It had been one of the few joys in his life then when the withdrawals were still fresh and his body shaking and heaving at all hours from the deprivation. The physical exertion had been a relief and the straining of his Templar abilities against her magic had both hastened the burning of the lyrium from his system and taught him control – a control that the Templars had never taught him. They had stopped sparring – or rather, he had stopped sparring with her – after Haven when he realized that he had to let her go, that he needed to let the better man win her.

Because of this.

It is easy to push her and to let her push him, easy to direct his blows so that she moves _just so_ , easy to pivot and thrust and move against her in something that ceases to be a battle and instead becomes an intimate dance highlighted by the clang of metal and the crackle of lightning in the air. She moves differently already, her body accommodating and adjusting for how the child already changes her balance and center of gravity.

It remains, as always, one of the most stunning things he has ever seen.

“Look at all this posturing,” Dorian drawls as they move past him. “Southern mating rituals are so barbaric.”

“Complaining, kadan?” Bull asks.

Dorian’s laughter is like a cascade of chimes in his ears. “Maker, no!”

It’s easy to call a draw when they’re both flushed and sweaty, chests heaving with their exertion.  It’s so, so damnably easy to raise his hand and tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

“Maker’s breath… you are so beautiful,” he tells her and it’s easy to ghost a kiss across her knuckles.

It’s easy to realize in that moment that he’s crossed a line. Cullen is no longer playing a role. Not even in part. His heart and his body have picked up where his guilt and his reason cut him off a year ago.

He is courting the Inquisitor for real and has been since that day in the Val Royeux prison. It’s just taken him this long to realize it.

Dorian and the Iron Bull smirk at him from over Catheryn’s shoulder.

The only person in Skyhold he has been fooling, it seems, is himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the pregnancy timeline:  
> \- baby was conceived at the Storm Coast  
> \- Catheryn then spends three-ish weeks in the Exalted Plains  
> \- The events surrounding "Revelations" and Blackwall/Thom's subsequent imprisonment, return to Skyhold, and trial take not quite two weeks  
> \- Between the trial and when Cullen offers to be the baby daddy is 4 days  
> \- The events of this chapter take place over the following month
> 
> So, as of the end of this chapter, Catheryn is approximately 11-12 weeks pregnant.


	12. The Thing With Feathers

It’s crisp and cool in the pre-dawn gray as the Inquisitor’s party gathers in the courtyard and prepares to leave, the eastern horizon barely showing the blush of pinks and golds that herald in a new day. Catheryn is shivering despite the sturdy leather of the armor she’s wearing and Cullen doesn’t even think. He simply peels off his own coat and drapes it around her shoulders, his hands lingering on her arms. A sigh – a happy one, he thinks, remembering what Cole had told him – leaves her lips as she presses her face into the fur.

“I’ll just have to give it back in a minute,” she protests even as she snuggles down into it, the lines on her face relaxing as she inhales deeply.  Cullen smiles, his hands rubbing soft lines up and down her arms to help warm her. He likes the way she looks in his coat, likes the way it swallows her up and holds her, likes the way the brown and the red look against the blush of her skin and tangle of her hair.

“Keep it,” he says gruffly.

Catheryn freezes, her brown eyes wide. “But Cullen…”

“It’s cold where you’re going. Please take it, Catheryn,” he urges quietly, unable to stop himself from freeing her braid from beneath the fur of his coat, smoothing his fingers along its strands as it falls down the length of her back.

“But you… save for Halamshiral I’ve never seen you go a day without this coat,” she murmurs. “It’s your favorite.”

It is. Found by chance at a tailor’s in Denerim, it’s cozy and warm – heavy enough to combat the chills and numbness that frequently plague him but loose enough to allow air to circulate and cool the sweat of the fevers that are his constant companion. The fabric and fur are soft, almost silky, beneath his touch. He has other coats, _nicer_ coats - a fact that Josephine, Dorian, and even Vivienne point out on a frequent basis, but the fabric is jarring against his skin. The catch of wool or thick spun cotton is too much for his sensitized flesh.

This coat is perfect. Neither too soft nor too harsh, neither too smooth nor too ribbed. In the quiet corner of his heart he dares to believe that it might be a gift from Andraste or maybe even the bloody Maker himself - a token of comfort to ease him amongst all the horror he has endured in their names.

He shrugs. “I have other coats and I’m sure Josephine will jump at the chance to get me a new one. I might even help her get it right this time.” Cullen smiles slightly and cups her face in his hand, his thumb caressing along the elegant arch of her cheekbone. “I can’t go with you and I wish I was,” he admits fiercely. “It will bring me comfort knowing that you have this bit of me, however small, watching out for you.” He swallows, watching the faint blush of color chase his thumb across her face. “That… that is, if you…”

“Yes,” she answers fiercely and his heart stops in his chest when she covers his hand with her own.

“Catheryn, I…”

The loud, intrusive sound of a certain Qunari clearing his throat makes them both jump. “Sorry Boss,” Bull apologizes, not sounding sorry in the slightest, a wicked little grin crinkling the corners of his mouth as he stares at the pair of them. “But we need to get going.”

Catheryn follows his gaze skyward and sighs at the unmistakable proof of passing time. “I’m coming,” she sighs and takes a step backwards. Cullen lets his hand fall from her face and fights the urge to punch the Qunari in his smug gray face.

Bull smirks broadly.

Bloody Qunari spy.

“You’ll keep me apprised of the situation?” he asks formally, offering a steadying arm that she doesn’t need but takes anyway as she swings up into the saddle. _Will you write me?_ Is what he’s really asking, praying that she won’t make him wait a month or more to converse with her.  He can’t bring himself to actually ask that. They’re friends. Anything more is real on his part and… a necessitated disguise on her part. He’s not sure he could bear to receive fake love letters from her.

Why that of all things is where he draws the line he’s not sure, but it is.

She smiles gently, something lurking in her eyes that he can’t place. “Of course,” she assures. He expects her to go then but she doesn’t. She sits on the Fiend, who is starting to dance in that _we-need-to-move-or-I-will-take-a-bite-out-of-someone_ manner, and stares down at him, nibbling the corner of her lip and ignoring the trio waiting for her by the gate.

“Fuck it,” she finally declares with an almost violent jerk of her head.

Cullen gasps as her fingers slide through the carefully tamed strands of his hair, loosening the curls as her nails drag against his scalp and then her lips are pressed against his – a quick, searing kiss that jerks through him like a bolt of lightning.

And then she’s gone, a whisper of air and the clatter of hooves against the cobblestone marking her passage across the courtyard. Cullen stares, unable to look away as she rides out of Skyhold, the feel of her lips against his a brand that his soul will never forget.

“She’s brighter when you hold her,” Cole observes calmly as she disappears from view. Cullen jumps.

“Maker’s breath…” he swears softly but he can’t stop the wild, giddy grin that pulls at his face. She had kissed him. _She_ kissed _him._

“You were far away again,” Cole defends.

Cullen’s smirk widens. “Yes,” he murmurs, “I suppose I was.”

“Lighter, brighter she burns more herself,” Cole continues in that strange sing-song cadence of his. “You help her hurts. You always have. Just like she helps yours.” Cole turns, tipping his head so that his haunting pale gaze can look Cullen in the face. “Beating, clawing the darkness eats him from the inside out. Fingers dig into his flesh, biting, cutting, just to prove that he’s real. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry_. But what else could he have done?”

“That wasn’t the only way he could have handled it,” Cullen says quietly. “So many ways that would have caused so much less hurt.”

“He wanted to help, to fix the hurt. Instead he broke everything.”

“Yes,” Cullen agrees softly, unable to look away from the man he had once called friend. The past month has not been kind to him. He’s thinner, the pale blue-green of eyes unnaturally bright over the sallowness of sunken cheeks. “He did. Some things can’t be fixed.”

“That’s what he believes,” Cole tells him. “If you believed it too it might be true.” Cole offers him a brilliant grin. “Can’t you feel it? Bright and blazing, a cleansing fire in your hands fed by the warmth in your heart. She'll heal him if he lets her."

Cullen touches his lips and does not doubt a word that Cole says.

After all, she heals him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally the last thousand words of the previous chapter but left there it seemed like an add on and it definitely doesn't work as the beginning of the next chapter. So here it is, all on its lonesome and because I think 1000 words (give or take) is a pathetic excuse for an update you get two chapters today.  
> Onward!


	13. Words, When Nothing Else Will Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author indulges in her affection for correspondence style fics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2/2 for today's update.

_Commander Cullen Rutherford,_

_This is me, keeping you_ “apprised” _._

_Remind me again why we agreed to come to this blighted place? We’ve got a bonfire big enough to masquerade as a fucking dragon and Dorian and I have laid fire glyphs on every suitable surface and it is barely enough to keep us from freezing where we sit. I can’t imagine how the locals have managed to hold out against it for so long. Thank you, thank you for insisting that I take your coat. I can well imagine that it will be the difference between waking a popsicle and not waking at all once we are out away from the main camp._

_… Bull says I’m being dramatic and that it’s not_ that _cold. But he’s actually put on a shirt so I’m not sure that his words can be trusted._

_Outside of feeling like death-by-hypothermia is imminent I am well. The nausea is finally beginning to abate and outside of some… distress… if I eat too much at one time it is only set off by certain smells. Sera just about cried when I confiscated the last of her oatmeal raisin cookies and incinerated them. I just couldn’t take the permeating smell of cinnamon any longer._

_Sincerely,_

_Inquisitor Catheryn Treveylan: Herald of Andraste_

_P.S – Did I make things awkward?_

* * *

 

 

_Inquisitor Catheryn Trevelyan: Herald of Andraste,_

_Maker, that’s a mouthful. I feel like I should apologize (again) for helping saddle you with some of those designations._

_To answer your question: I presume you are there for the same reasons you go anywhere. Because you’re a good person and you will help wherever you can. It inspires a loyalty and trust that is, quite frankly, awe inspiring and is almost singlehandedly responsible for the growth and power of the Inquisition. There’s also the fact that you’re the only one that can close rifts. That’s a big reason too. Please try not to freeze while you’re saving the world. If the Iron Bull has deigned to put on a shirt then I know things are serious. Be careful ~~. I~~ We need you._

_We have received word from Fairbanks in the Emerald Graves concerning the last holdout of Freemen. I know he would prefer that you take care of it personally – that loyalty and trust I mentioned earlier – but I don’t want to delay that long. Cassandra will lead a small force to the Pavilion. I’d like to send Thom with her but am unsure that she will be able to remain strictly professional. Of the rest of the Inner Circle she has certainly taken the truth of his identity the hardest. I am torn between giving a friend time to grieve and outfitting the party to the best of its abilities for the mission at hand. Maker… My apologies for bringing up this subject. I will figure something out._

_Sincerely,_

_Commander Rutherford_

_P.S – No. You did not._

* * *

 

_Commander,_

_War is unfair, the sky is blue. Tell Cassandra to put on her big girl panties and send Thom on the damn mission._

_The Inquisitor_

* * *

 

_~~Comm~~ Cullen,_

_My apologies for the abruptness and tone of my last letter. I appreciate you bringing the matter of discontent to my attention. I fear my own head has been buried up my ass and I have neglected to spend the necessary time speaking to Cassandra about the whole situation. She and ‘Blackwall’ were close and she idolized him more than a little. Other reasons aside, I would not have saved Thom if I didn’t believe that he could still be a trusted and valued member of not only the Inquisition but of the Inner Circle. He possesses a skill set that no one else among my companions possesses – something that I don’t need to tell you because I’m sure you’ve noticed. Despite it all he is a good man._

_In more official news – guess who I bumped into? Michel de Chevin. I tried to talk him into joining the Inquisition but he’s apparently here on a mission of… justice? Vengeance? Both? Anyway, there’s a desire demon that he’s been tracking who is apparently holed up in Suledin Keep. The demon calls himself Imshael. The fact that Imshael has been on this side of the Veil long enough to give himself a name, a personality… the amount of power he will have amassed is slightly terrifying._

_I’ll be careful._

_If we are successful in helping Michel destroy the demon I imagine that he’ll be much more amenable to joining us. Is he someone that you would ~~like~~ trust to have at your side? Or should I let the matter drop?_

_I’ve cleared out the two rifts closest to the town. Both, incidentally, out in the middle of frozen lake. Fighting on the ice made me think of Haven. I enjoyed our last sparring session. I admit that it is something I have missed, though I understand that our collective duties now keep us too busy to indulge as much as I would like. Anyway… the inhabitants were grateful. I think. Maker, there’s less than a hundred people left here and most of them are old or ill. It’s not just the cold or lack of resources that are killing them – the Red Templars are taking people. I really, really don’t want to know why but I suspect that I’ll have to find out._

_Sincerely,_

_Catheryn Trevelyan, Inquisitor. Maker save us._

_P.S – I’m glad, Cullen. Very glad._

* * *

 

_Inquisitor,_

_There is nothing to apologize for. Cassandra and party have left – and despite Cassandra looking about as pleased as a wet cat it seemed like she and Thom have settled into a truce of some sort. More correctly, Thom is too smart to antagonize her outright but neither will he let her walk over him. That much, it seems, has not changed and despite the circumstances I find myself glad of it. Varric decided to accompany them at the last moment. He says he does it to keep the peace but I don’t know that he and Cassandra in close quarters is the recipe for peaceful anything. I believe he is hoping to get a good story out of what happens between them._

_I have five gold down on Cassandra punching him in the face. He very nearly didn’t take my bet since_ I _have already punched him the face. Of course, that is exactly why I think Cassandra will. We have always been much alike, the Seeker and I._

_Michel de Chevin is an exemplary soldier. If you can sway him to our cause… we would benefit greatly from his addition our ranks. While I would likely monopolize his time I imagine that he knows enough secrets about some of the great Orlesian Houses that Leliana and Josephine would make sure of his welcome._

_I do not like the idea of a demon who has given himself a name. Please, please be careful. Desire demons are tricky, monstrous beasts. _

_The fact that the Red Templars are taking people is troubling. Why would they? It is not something they have done at other locations and it sits ill with me. I know I’ve already said it but please be careful. The Inquisition can’t afford to lose you._

_Maker keep you,_

_Commander Rutherford_

_P.S – I am too._

* * *

 

_Commander,_

_You picked his face, huh? I’ve placed ten on her kneeing him in the crotch – though she could use her shield, I suppose. The poetic justice of such an act would (will?) appeal to her immensely._

_I had never before considered that you and Cassandra are similar but now that you’ve mentioned it I can see it. All due respect to Cassandra – because that woman is an unstoppable force of nature – but I believe you’re the better of the two, if only because you have let your experiences soften your edges while she retains hers – a prickly exterior to hide an ooey-gooey interior. Regardless, I would be lost without the both of you (and very likely dead  - if not at the Temple of Sacred Ashes then of hypothermia in the avalanche after Haven)._

_Michel has gone on ahead, unwilling to let Imshael slip from his grasp while we dally with the Red Templars. As he is not mine (yet) I let him. Hopefully it is not the last we see of him. I quite like him. We, as you might have guessed, are slogging through ass deep snow and scaring up hordes of Red Templars with every step. I feel so guilty when I look at them. Would they be here, dying, if I had chosen to go to Therrin Redoubt instead of Redcliffe? I do not regret, in any way, saving the mages from Alexius’ madness. I do regret not being able to save the Templars as well.  It is too easy for me to see your face inside their helmets and wonder at what might-have-been._

_We have taken over one of their camps and installed our own in its place. Tomorrow we’ll follow their trail through the mountains and see where it leads. For now their path and Suledin Keep lie in the same direction. I am trying not to think on what they might possibly want with the people they have taken.  Everything my mind can conjure up is quite likely as horrible as the reality._

_To be honest desire demons are not too bad. Dorian harbors a special place in his heart for them though – has he ever told you of his Harrowing? It shouldn’t surprise anyone that it was a desire demon that tempted him. Apparently they had quite the affair before he killed it. Mine was a pride demon. The laugh still gets me every fucking time, like shards of glass sliding down my spine._

_I know it is pointless to tell you not to worry but rest assured that Dorian, Bull, and Sera all know to lop off my hand should I fall in battle. A severed hand is a slightly more gruesome figurehead than yours truly but it will still get the job done. I shall do my best not to die though. I’ve gotten pretty good at it over the last couple of years. And my motivation for surviving has never been higher. Even if my pants are getting a bit tight._

_With frozen toes,_

_Catheryn Trevelyan_

_P.S – I’m glad._

_P.P.S – Shit. I forgot about the slip of Prophet’s Laurel  I was starting on my desk. It should be sturdy enough now to re-pot. Save it for me?_

* * *

 

_Inquisitor,_

_While there_ is _a great deal of poetic justice in what you propose for the Lady Seeker’s actions I will certainly not be suggesting it to her. I would not wish that on anyone but the very worst of my enemies. Does Corypheus still have balls, I wonder?_

_Recently I have had a bit of an epiphany regarding the idea of “a better man” or, in this case, woman – chiefly that the facts of it are that there are no facts – only conclusions drawn through the eyes of the beholder. Though I would still argue the conclusion you have drawn about Cassandra and myself. Regardless, I am glad that we both remain at your side and pleased that you hold us in such high regard.  Cassandra has sent word from the Graves. They have arrived and will launch their attack soon. It is probably happening now, as I write this. She writes that everything is well but, according to Varric, she is about two seconds away from eruption – though rather it will grief, anger, or disappointment that spurs it is any one’s guess._

_I too have thought of what-might-have-been. It’s a dangerous game to play with oneself but I can’t help but wonder, like you, if I would be a distorted face behind a terrible red mask if I had not chosen to accept Cassandra’s offer. On the matter of the Templars of Therrin Redoubt do not doubt or blame yourself, I beg you. You made the right call. You made the only call you could make. We did not know what was happening with the Templars and were given no chance to find out but we had a Tevinter Magister enslaving hundreds of mages practically on our doorstep. Even if we had known of the Envy demon and the beginnings of the Red Templars… It pains me, but the mages would still have been a better choice. I shudder to think what monsters Corypheus might have made of them. What destruction he would have wrought with Alexius in Samson’s place. Samson is a monster but Alexius… he was something else._

_You see the Red Templars you face as a proof of failure and each man – or woman – that you are forced to kill is someone that you failed to save but I promise you it is not so. You are a spirit of mercy come to them in their darkest of hours. Death, at this point, can’t be anything but_ _a mercy._

_Lyrium, uncorrupted lyrium, is a wonderful thing in the beginning. The rush, the power… you feel as if you are the Maker himself, capable of taking on the entire world. The righteousness, the_ rightness _of it is invigorating. It the best thing I have ever felt. But then, after a while, they begin to lengthen the time between vials or they lower your dosage. If you are unlucky they do both. If you are disobedient they take it away entirely. I do not have to describe the symptoms of withdrawal to you. By the end of the first week even the best of men pray for an abomination – or for at least the chance of one – for such will grant them a full vial of lyrium. Even then the lyrium begins to falter. As the years pass its song is not so sweet and its rush won’t carry you as high as you crave. It twists you and changes you, the wanting, until the end when it either kills you or takes your mind._

_And that is on uncorrupted lyrium. I cannot imagine what nightmares the Red Templars have been forced to endure. What they are enduring. You are not failing them, Catheryn, you are saving them._

_Maker, I miss you._

_Don’t die. That is an express order. I doubt I would be able to forgive any of your companions for the crime of taking your hand from your corpse – necessary or not. I would not be able to forgive you for dying, either. So don’t die._

_Cullen_

_P.S – You said that._

_P.S.S – The situation was more volatile than strictly necessary but I am pleased to report the mission was a success. The Prophet’s Laurel has been rescued from your desk and repotted into a stray urn I found in a storeroom off the garden. With my luck it’s probably some priceless Tevinter antique and everyone will lose their minds when they see it in my office with a plant growing out of it. I shall endeavor not to kill it and you may do with it what you wish upon your return._

_P.P.P. S – Figures that Dorian had a bloody desire demon. I wouldn’t have called pride for you though. You always do manage to surprise me._

* * *

 

_Cullen,_

_Maker… I. I can’t. I thought I could write this without bursting into tears again but apparently I was wrong and now the fucking things are freezing to my cheeks…_

* * *

 

_Commander,_

_Do I need to have a talk with you about upsetting our dear Inquisitor?  Whatever you wrote has had her in tears off and on for two days. It’s getting ridiculous. Bull’s had to resort to snuggling and making her drink hot chocolate. It’s adorable but I’d much rather he be snuggling_ me _._

_Don’t make me kick your rather spectacular ass. Friend or not, I_ will _light you on fire if you hurt her._

_Dorian Pavus_

* * *

 

_Commander,_

_I must apologize for the other above. Your letter touched me most profoundly and I found myself… distraught. Maker, I cannot imagine what you have gone through. What you have lived_ _through. You are the strongest man I know. Thank you for the gift of your words. I still feel guilt when I see their lifeless faces. I suspect I always will. Your words temper the harsh edges of the guilt though and make it bearable._

_I am… relieved to hear your thoughts on the mages and Redcliffe. I confess that I have wondered since then if you blame me, at least in part, for the fall of your brethren and the destruction of the Templar Order. I would not fault you if you did._

_We have taken the second and third camps. Here the paths between the quarry and the keep diverge. I’ve spent the entire day waffling between which route to take next but, having seen no sign of Michel, I’ve resolved to take the keep first. I don’t want to leave a demon that strong waiting behind me and I don’t want to lose Michel over it either._

_Also, there is a bridge here that will likely need repairing. And by “needs repairing” I mean the whole thing is pretty much gone. No rush though. Well, unless you ask Bull. The dragons all seem to be nesting on the other side, much to his disappointment._

_So I guess there is a rush. I don’t really want Orlais overrun with itty bitty dragons._

_Thank you for saving my plant._

_I hate to leave it at this but I am too tired and my mind can’t form the words the rest of me wants to say. I hope that you are well and trust that you will keep me informed on the Cassandra-Thom front. (Curious, is your vehemence against my guess the voice of experience?)_

_Catheryn_

_P.S – Thank you, again, for the coat. It is the only thing big enough and warm enough to sleep in._

* * *

 

_Inquisitor,_

_Regrettably yes, it is experience that speaks. I was young and just entered into my Templar training. None of us knew much of what we were doing besides “swords stab, shields block”. The concept of shield bash was foreign and exciting. Nothing more needs to be said, I think._

_I hope that you rested well. I worry about you. I worry that you won’t remember to eat. I worry that you won’t sleep enough. I worry that you’ll push yourself too hard, take too many risks. I know you think that the worry is a waste of time and perhaps it is but it’s not something I can stop. I will always worry about you. I always have. There’s just more reason to now. It does please me, probably more than it should, that the coat is proving to be of use to you._

_Of course the Iron Bull would be upset that he can’t reach the dragons’ nests. Maker, if that man had any more of a death wish he might as well be a member of the Legion of the Dead. I’ll need more detailed reports on the bridge and, if it is as ruined and large as you say it is, I’ll need to have some engineers look at it. After all the grief you’ve been giving me over that bridge in the Exalted Plains I want to make sure this one is done to your Worship’s preferences._

_That’s a joke. Just in case you couldn’t tell._

_Though you do bring up that other bridge a lot._

_I am sorry that my words brought you such distress but I am pleased that they also helped. I know you wish to spare me pain – a feeling I can emphasize with – but I would still be there with you if I could. You must know that I do not blame you, in any way, for the loss of the Templars. In truth they were lost long before you fell from the Fade into the ruins of the Conclave._

_Do you ever think about what might have happened if you hadn’t been there that day? If you hadn’t interrupted Corypheus? If you weren’t the Herald?_

_Sincerely,_

_Commander Rutherford_

_P.S – I am sorry. You do not have to answer that. It is late and I cannot sleep. My dreams are restless tonight._

* * *

 

_Commander,_

_We have taken Suledin Keep. Imshael was almost a breath of fresh air after what we had to fight our way through. Giants, Cullen. They were experimenting with infecting fucking giants_ _with red lyrium. GIANTS. They succeeded too. That’s not an experience I want to repeat any time soon. Breathe. I’m fine. Bull got his arm broken though. Not that it stopped him. He simply chugged a potion and powered on through. I didn’t even realize it was broken until later – when we had to rebreak it so that it could heal straight. That was fun._

_Imshael tried to tempt us. Power, riches, sex… the usual repertoire for a desire demon. I can see why Dorian chose to… converse… with his prior to killing it. Ishmael was entertaining, if nothing else. Trust me, after the damn giant and the red lyrium behemoths I needed a bit of entertaining. He died easily enough, once he got through all his forms – oh. I should mention this: he shifted forms. He was definitely a desire demon but he took the forms of a fear demon, a rage demon, and finally a pride demon before the end._

_It’s been a day of surprises._

_As far as I know Michel is safe back in Sahrnia. We caught up to him at the entrance to the keep. He was fighting his way back out because Imshael had sent a pack of shades to terrorize the town. As he was holding his own quite well against the demons when we arrived I’m assuming that the shades did not present him any trouble. Waiting for verification from the main camp on that matter._

_Now that the keep has been cleared we are planning to rest here for a few days until reinforcements  arrive to hold the keep while we hunt down the rest of the Templars and take a look in the quarry._

_I don’t want to Cullen. I’m tired and so sick of the stench and dissonance of the lyrium in the air. I’m sick of seeing what is being done. I just want to sleep. I want the world to be a better place – but if I don’t clean up this mess, who will?_

_And I’m been craving those little frilly cakes with the raspberry and pepper filling for two weeks and, as you can imagine, there’s not fucking chance of finding those out here._

_Excuse the pity party. Today was a long day._

_To answer your question: no. Is that odd? That’s odd, isn’t it? The truth is that I have had so little say in so many major decisions of my life that it simply did not occur to me. So no, I don’t, and I don’t wish to. Which is also probably odd. But… freezing cold, backstabbing politicians, and magister darkspawn aside … I like my life. I like helping. Mostly I like the people that this life has blessed me with. I don’t imagine my life differently because to do so would be to imagine it without you._

_I hope your dreams have given you some peace._

_Sincerely,_

_The bloody tired and hungry Herald of Andraste_

_P.S – I keep bringing up that bridge because you literally just laid some boards across the gaps. I could have done that._

_P.P.S – I laughed so hard at your... “training mishap” that Dorian stole my letter. Don’t worry, I set him on fire and got it back, but not before he read that first paragraph. Sorry. Do you want me to dangle him over the edge of the keep and trade his life for his silence?_

* * *

 

_Inquisitor,_

_I regretfully must inform you that you did not win your bet. As suspected Cassandra punched Thom in the face. I’m informed that he bore it with good grace despite the fact that he was having an arrow pulled out of his shoulder at the time. Apparently he took a shot meant for the Seeker. So naturally she punched him._

_Maker, I will never understand women. Please don’t punish me for that._

_The rest of their mission went well. The threat has been cleared from the Pavilion. Hopefully this takes care of the last pocket of bandits for the Graves in general._

_I am glad that the demon is dead and the keep is ours. More than that I am glad that you are safe. As much as I care for Bull I’d rather see every bone in his body broken than a hair on your head harmed._

_I have never heard of a demon that shifted its shape. Not like that, anyway. Perhaps Solas would have a better idea?_

_I… I find that I am selfishly glad that you do not wish for a different life. This is not the one I imagined for myself either and yet I cannot bring myself to wish for another one.  I am finally proud of the man I am becoming and I… I would not forgo the pleasure of knowing you for all the peace in the world._

_I will have little frilly cakes waiting for you upon your return._

_Be safe,_

_Commander Rutherford_

_P.S – The river was barely deep enough or wide enough to need a bridge. You’re lucky I gave you one at all._

_P.P.S – No. Leave Pavus to me._

* * *

 

_Cullen,_

_They were using the townspeople to grow red lyrium. Farming out their flesh like it was nothing more than dirt to feed Corypheus’ monstrosity. It is too close to what I saw in Redcliffe. I… I am sick and angry. They weren’t taken, Cullen. Madame Poulin was selling them to the Red Templers. _

_I found several letters from Samson. We should be able to use them to track his location._

_I am done with this place. The rifts have been sealed, the keep reclaimed, and the Red Templars and their lyrium operation have been destroyed. I’m coming home. I can’t stay here a moment longer._

_Catheryn_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Bioware missed a great opportunity with Alexius. He totally should have been Corypheus' chief henchman in the "Sided with the Templars" storyline. Maybe it's just me but I found that whole Calpernia thing to be immensely disappointing. So much so that I've only, to date, sided with the Templars once ... out of at least a dozen playthroughs.


	14. Saving Grace

Catheryn cups her hands around the raven for a moment, feeling the delicate strength of its life beating beneath her fingertips before she opens her hands and tosses it into the air. Bracing her hands on the railing of the frost covered balcony she leans back and traces the bird’s flight as it rises in the air, dipping once as it circles the top of the keep before winging off into the glow of the full moon. It will be in Leliana’s – and thus Cullen’s – hands by this time tomorrow. She hasn’t even bothered to write a separate report for her spymaster this time. It seems pointless since Leliana – or one of her trusted henchmen – reads all correspondence anyway.

Curling her hands away from the cold, she huddles down in Cullen’s coat until her face is buried in the fur up to her eyeballs. It stills smells like him - like elfroot and peppermint mixed with the tang of sweat and the sharp metallic notes of his armor. It likely is all in her head. It has been over a month since he's worn it. The residue of his touch has probably long since been worn away beneath smoke, grime, and her own sweat. Still, when she holds it close and closes her eyes she still smells him. It’s not quite having his arms around her but it helps.  She shouldn’t want his arms around her this much but she does. She shouldn’t have kissed him but she did and, Maker help her, she wants to again. 

“What are you doing, Trevelyan?” she murmurs into the coat.

“I’ve heard that pregnant women have memory problems but I didn’t think you were far enough long for that to happen yet,” Dorian observes slyly as he joins her on the balcony. “How is Dorian Jr doing?”

“Snug and warm in their little cave,” Catheryn replies, tucking herself under Dorian’s arm. “People are going to think that you’re their dad if you keep up that _Dorian Jr_ business.”

“Let them, lovely, I’m sure half the world will think it anyway regardless of what is happening between you and our dear Commander.”

Catheryn groans and bangs her head softly against hard plane of his pectorals. “My life is worse than one of Varric’s novels,” she groans.

“Indeed. I imagine he weeps on a daily basis that he’ll not be able to pluck it, pen it, and profit from it. Can you imagine? Orlais would be all in a tizzy.” He smirks against the top of her head and she elbows him in the gut.

“Bastard,” she mutters affectionately.

“Oh, don’t let my mother hear you say that. She suffered quite greatly to ensure that I was _not_. All those serving boys,” he sighs dramatically. “It’s so hard to look and not touch.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mmm… and you love me for it.”

“I do,” she agrees. He tightens his embrace in silent return of her affection and brushes his lips across the top of her head. “So did you draw the short straw? Or did Sera and Bull bully you into coming out here and checking on me?”

The handsome altus sniffs. “Neither, actually. I couldn’t sleep. Today…”

“...It was too close to Redcliffe,” Catheryn finishes quietly. The view from the balcony is quite spectacular but all she can see are the bodies – their shapes blurred and corrupted by the red monster growing out of them – eyes open and screaming, though no sound can come out because their mouths are sealed shut by the crystals forming there. All she can see are Cullen and Solas and Blackwal – _Thom_ – lost to the same fate, to a world so red that every breath was choked with it.

 “Yes.” They both shiver and it has absolutely nothing to do with the cold. “I’m sorry he’s not here to hold you,” Dorian adds softly.

Catheryn snorts, shrugging away the pang of agreement that shoots through her. “I have you.”

“Always. But it’s not quite the same thing.”

No. It’s not. Dorian will understand because he was _there_. He will always understand in a way that no one else can because they experienced it together. But he’s right. It’s not the same thing. Not quite. There’s still that… _something_ … missing. Catheryn sighs. “Which him?” she asks quietly and she knows that Dorian is perhaps the only person in Thedas that she could make herself ask that question of.

 Her best friend sighs. “Cullen. Thom’s still got his head shoved too far up his impressive ass to see anything but self-pity and loathing.” His hand rubs across her arm, the gesture soft and soothing. “That’s the issue though, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Catheryn sighs and shuts her eyes, burying herself in the fur and Dorian’s robes, nosing through the fabric until the smooth spice of his cologne blended perfectly with the cooler, sharper scents of Cullen’s coat. “I’m so fucked.”

“Or not, which is probably the problem,” Dorian mutters irreverently.

 “Dorian…!”

"What? I've heard that an increased sex drive is fairly common in women of your condition. You would be amazed at the number of erotically illustrated books I've had to throw out on the subject..."

Catheryn hits him with a small bolt of lightning.

 “ _Kaffas, woman_! Fine…” she can _feel_ him rolling his eyes. “Continue. You’re fucked… why, exactly?”

 Catheryn lets out a shaky breath. “I still… I still…”

“… love Thom? Oh, lovely, anyone with eyes can see that,” Dorian whispers, breaking in when her nerve begins to falter. “You don’t hand out pardons for criminals and then mope around in various alarming stages of shock for someone that you don’t love. Skyhold is positively swooning over the tragedy of it. It’s not your fault he’s a jackass.”

“But I kissed Cullen,” she confesses and Dorian’s mustache twitches against her head.

“I know. I was there, remember? It’s not like you two were somewhere private.” Catheryn punches him – lightly, but still. He chuckles softly. “I take it that it was an act of passion and not a ploy to convince those who might be watching?”

“Ah… yes,” she manages to get out, her face flushing a bright red. “I wanted to kiss him. I love Thom. Probably always will. But… I…I think I might have feelings for Cullen too,” she confesses in a rush. “And the world is going to shit. And that’s… what kind of _person_ am I?”

“A _lucky_ one.”

She punches him again. Why couldn’t Bull have been her best friend? The former Ben Hassarath might actually provide some useful information to the conversation instead of making overtly sexual references. Well, instead of _only_ making sexual references.

“Be serious Dorian. I’m drowning here. Is it just the pregnancy making me crazy? Am I projecting these feelings onto my relationship with Cullen because everything went to shit with Thom? He’s my friend, Dorian, my best friend - save for you - and he’s been through some pretty awful things. Things as awful as Redcliffe except they were really _real_ and they lasted longer. And will keep lasting,” she adds, thinking of the lyrium. Fuck, but she should have waited for this conversation. Waited until they both weren’t so raw and wounded from what they’d seen. Dorian is more useful in the advice department when he’s not busy trying to cover up his injuries with a flamboyant and dashing personality. Catheryn tightens her hands over the swell of her stomach. “Am I taking advantage of his friendship?” she asks quietly.

Dorian inhales sharply “Oh, lovely,” he murmurs instead and the softness nearly undoes her. “No, no, no, _no_ … is that what you think? You think that he…?” he swears heavily under his breath and tightens his grip nearly to the point of discomfort. “Maker, no wonder you’re such a mess.”  He’s quite for a moment and then, “Catheryn, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.” The use of her name, more than anything, snaps her to attention. He hasn’t used her name in a long time. In public, formal situations he uses her title. Otherwise he calls her “lovely” and has since the day they met. Of all the names she has amassed – and it seems like there are more of them every day – it is her favorite. Thom’s brief _my love_ had held promise but…

“When we return to Skyhold you need to talk to Cullen.”

Catheryn pulls away. Or tries to. Dorian is holding her too tightly for her to actually succeed. “Dorian…”

“I am being utterly serious.  It doesn’t happen often so please listen – You need to talk to Cullen. Honestly. About what you are feeling.” Catheryn groans at his words because that is exactly what she is hoping to avoid and she can feel his smile against her skull. “I know, lovely, trust me I know. But if I can man up to talk to Bull about all the gushy feelings I feel for him then you can certainly face the Commander.”

Cold, paralyzing fear claws at her heart. “I don’t… it’s _too soon_. What if…” She couldn’t lose Cullen. She’d barely survived losing Thom. If she lost it, if she… if despair or rage or the great gnawing emptiness took her the entire world would fall. And she wouldn't care.

“It’s not and it won’t,” Dorian reassures. “Some things are not mine to tell but I promise you, lovely, that you do not need to fear speaking with our handsome Commander.” Catheryn closes her eyes and hopes that he is right. “I have watched you watch him since the day I arrived in Haven. Trust me, lovely, you’re not projecting anything.”

“Promise?” she asks quietly, a child begging for something to be true.

“I lost twenty gold sovereigns when you got together with Thom instead of Cullen,” her best friend tells her, still miffed at the proof it offers. “I promise, lovely.”

“Okay.”

They’re silent for a moment, content to just huddle together in the cold of the night until, “If you two are finished with your heartfelt moment out there would you mind coming back inside?” Bull’s voice echoes out of the chamber they had taken for themselves. “Sera is a cover hog and the draft is freezing my balls off.”

Despite herself, Catheryn feels a smile curve her lips and that night, pressed between Dorian and Bull, she finally manages to find some peace.

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen pauses in his office just long enough to take a deep breath, his fingers flexing within supple leather as his gaze falls on the delicate stalk of Prophet’s Laurel that has taken up residence on his desk. He’s never had a lot of personal possessions. What little he’d possessed had been left behind when he walked away from the Order and accepted Cassandra’s invitation to join the Inquisition. He’d left Kirkwall with exactly four items of his own: his lyrium kit, his sword, his armor, and the most recent of Mia’s letters. Five, if you count the coin, which he doesn’t, because it is as much a part of him as the skin on his bones. Of those only the letter remains, singed and dirtied from the flight from Haven. It sits in the top drawer of his desk next to Mia’s other letters and those from the Inquisitor.

 Despite his almost immediate decision to stop taking lyrium the kit had stayed with him until the day he and Catheryn had knelt in the enforced privacy of Skyhold’s garden and symbolically poured the vial of lyrium he had always kept stocked into the ground. The rest of the kit had been reduced to nothing more than ash beneath the touch of her fingers: a gray dust born away on the wind.

The armor had been traded in for something else as soon as he’d arrived in Haven. It hadn’t fit as well but it didn’t have the stamp of the Order on its front. Ill fitting, he had worn it anyway until Catheryn had wordlessly presented him with a new set of armor. It had been a gift he could not refuse, not even in the depths of his self-loathing. Not after his fingers had found the delicate spiral of elfroot leaves stamped into the metal instead of Harritt’s more familiar mark. Cullen is a lot of terrible things but he’s not cruel enough – or stupid enough – to turn away a perfectly tailored suit of armor made for him by the woman he secretly loves.

The sword had lasted until the assault on Adamant when its blade had been broken between the weapons of two Pride Demons. He’d commissioned a replacement as soon as they’d returned to Skyhold and when he had picked it up he’d felt a rush of pleasure – but no surprise – to see Catheryn’s mark inscribed upon the blade, the faint etching gleaming in the muted light of the runes attached to the pommel.

She has an obsession for crafting items for those she cares about and the joy of being on that list had nearly stopped his heart.

Even now that the Inquisition has grown in wealth and power and he could no doubt buy a great many things his possessions are few – armor, sword, correspondence, a barely acceptable amount of clothing, and a handful of the books that line his office.  The Prophet’s Laurel – not even truly his, having been brought back from the Emerald Graves as nothing more than a little sliver of life in the Inquisitor’s saddle bags – has become one of his most treasured possessions. Together with their letters it has been his lifeline to Catheryn, a surrogate that he bargains with the Maker for.

 _If I can keep this plant alive then you can keep her alive,_ he’d prayed daily.

_If it can grow and flourish here on my desk then she and the child will return safe and sound._

He knew that he’d miss her – he always misses her when she leaves Skyhold – but this is different. He doesn’t just miss their conversations and chess games. It’s not just the physical absence of her unfaltering friendship and easy companionship that he feels like a hole in his gut. He misses the scent of her on his clothing and skin. He misses _their_ bed, his own bed above his office with its unhindered view of the stars no longer comforting. He misses sleeping – Maker, he hadn’t realized how much he’d actually gotten to _sleep_ since he’d started sharing Catheryn’s bed but what Varric had observed months ago still holds true. His nightmares are less when they are together. He’s angry and sad at the missed opportunity to take care of her and to watch as her belly begins to swell. Catheryn barely mentions her pregnancy in her letters – probably wise since Josephine is waiting until after her return and the inevitable flurry of rumors that will spawn at the sight of her to formally announce her condition – but Dorian’s carefully worded letters keep him up to date on the situation.

 _D.J. is making his presence known. I can’t wait to get my hands on Josephine when we get back. Lovely needs a new wardrobe and you know she’ll_ _never get around to commissioning it for herself._

Cullen doesn’t have to ask to know that the affectionate _D.J_ stands for Dorian Junior. Trust the ‘vint to push it.

The words though, they aren’t enough. He needs to see her, to _hold_ her himself – to know that she is whole and safe. That _both_ of them are.

He’s had a taste of her and now he is a man starved.

Which is why he’s been pacing the battlements since a raven arrived this morning, informing Skyhold that the Inquisitor’s party has begun the final ascent to Skyhold, snapping and growling at anyone that gets in his way. The battlements, usually busy, are vacant save for the sentries who _can’t_ leave their posts and Jim, who Leliana has no doubt ordered to tail him on pain of death.

 _Poor bastard_ , Cullen thinks, not so far gone that he can’t at least feel sorry for those that are the victims of his snarling impatience. Though if he nearly steps on the spy one more time he will very likely snap.

“Ser…”

He doesn’t need the spy to tell him. He can hear it too, the loud, clear, clarion sound of the horn announcing the Inquisitor’s arrival breaking through his thoughts and snapping every fiber of his body to attention. “Move!” he barks and Jim, thank the Maker, does exactly that.

                By the time he makes his way down the stairs to the main courtyard the three - no, four - horses and one dracolisk are passing beneath the arched entry. Bull is laughing at something Sera has said, no doubt at Dorian’s expense, given the uncharacteristic red staining the arch of his cheekbones. The other man riding with them, a handsome blonde man that Cullen vaguely notes must be Michel de Chevin. The chevalier – who, it turns out, is almost unrecognizable outside of his Orlesian frippery – is obviously torn between genuine amusement and complete bafflement.

It’s a familiar reaction. Thedas, Orlais in particular, has developed a narrow, golden view of the Inquisitor and her companions. The reality of the hodge podge band – one that frequently saves the world a half dozen times before lunch – is jarring in the face of the rumors and legends that people know. The dichotomy of seeing a revered, potentially divine hero as a _person_ is frequently more than most people can take.

 His surveillance of the party is brief and momentary, his mind automatically dismissing them – even de Chevin – in favor of finding the Inquisitor. Catheryn is there, just ahead of the rest of the party, genuine smile on her face as she raises a hand to the crowd that inevitably gathers when she arrives during the light of day. His coat is wrapped around her shoulders, the dark brush of fur against her pale, freckle dusted skin the same startling shade as her eyes, eyes that unerringly meet his above the crowd.

“Cullen!”

The crowd parts like water before him, rippling out of his way. All it takes are a handful of long strides and he’s at her side, a hand catching the Fiend’s bridle, the other hand brushing gently along the curve of her calf. His entire body shivers at the touch, blood singing beneath his skin as her presence washes over him in a wave of magic and the pure energy that is simply _her_. Alive. Breathing. Well.

 _Mostly well_ , he amends silently, noting the shadows hovering in the corners of her gaze. He’s not surprised that she’s still shaken by what had happened. He’s still shaken by what she had discovered there in the quarry and he hadn’t even been there – or at Redcliffe, because he knew as soon as he had read her letter that that is where her mind had gone.

“Inquisitor,” he greets quietly, breath catching in his throat as her fingers find his and weave through them, pressing their hands together. Wordlessly Cullen helps her from the horse, swinging her down in a careful movement, using his body and the Fiend's to shield her from the crowd’s prying eyes. He can feel the difference in her the moment he has hands on her body, feel the slight, firm protrusion of her abdomen as he enfolds her in his arms and tucks her tightly beneath his chin.

“I missed you,” she breathes against his chest.

“Maker’s breath…” he inhales sharply, turning to press his mouth to the top of her head. “I missed you too.”

His eyes find Thom across the courtyard, the older man watching from where the shadows pool at the base of the stairs, resignation and naked want written across his face.

 Cullen meets his gaze and doesn’t look away.

 Eventually, Thom does.

 

* * *

 

 Catheryn nods and murmurs an appropriate greeting as she passes Jim headed in the opposite direction, her wet braid swinging against the small of her back as she mounts the stairs leading to Cullen’s office. “You’ve spent a month climbing mountains in knee high snow. Going up a flight stairs should not be so fucking hard,” she mutters to herself, hands twisting in the fabric of her tunic. It’s looser than she is used to, Dorian apparently having had the forethought to write Josephine and let the Ambassador – ruler of All Things Domestic – know that the Inquisitor was in serious need of new, larger clothing. A handful of basic leggings and tunics in her preferred color palette of white, brown, and deep blue had been waiting in her quarters along with a steaming bath upon her arrival. They’re loose enough that the swell of her belly remains hidden – so long as she is standing still and the wind is not blowing. The wind, however, is blowing: outlining her form in the excess fabric and highlighting exactly what she might have wished to keep hidden for just a little longer. She’s well aware of the glances that have followed her. Even Jim had had a slightly crazed look on his face as he pulled up short and whirled to glance after her.

Josephine, no doubt, is thrilled.

 She pauses at the top of the stairs to catch her breath – and her courage. _Talk to him,_ Dorian had urged again as they parted in the stables. So here she is before she can completely lose her nerve. Inhaling deeply, she rubs her hands her hands up and down her thighs and steps into the tower.

If this costs her Cullen – or even the illusion of him – she is going to kill Dorian. Gleefully. With her bare hands.

“Catheryn,” Cullen’s voice is low and surprised as she darkens his doorway and she knows by the fact that he used her name and not her title that he is alone. “I did not expect to see you again until the debriefing in the War Room. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I… couldn’t,” she mumbles, fingers stroking along the soft green fronds of the plant on his desk as a smile curls hers her lips. “Do you have a minute? To… talk?”

Cullen’s smile is instant and brilliant - a flash of beauty capable of making all of Skyhold swoon and he directs it at her. Catheryn’s heartbeat steadies slightly in her chest as he replies, “For you? Always. Do you want to take a walk or…?” He hesitates, halfway out of his chair and motions at his office as the alternative.  Well aware of hips and pelvis still aching after days spent overly long in the saddle Catheryn tips her head at the door.

“A walk would be nice,” she admits. He takes her hand as they exit the office, fingers locking around her own and squeezing gently. For a moment they simply walk, both of them nodding politely to soldiers that they pass but not saying a word. Catheryn tips her head back and stares at the sky. Despite the fact that the trees are a riot of color in the courtyard, their leaves a rainbow of reds and golds against the gray stone of the keep, the sky is still that infinite, deep blue of a summer’s day.

Here, away from the chill and the horror of Emprise du Lion, it’s a beautiful day.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Cullen observes from her side and the shock of her hearing her exact thoughts echoed in his voice makes her jump a little.

 “…what?”

 “It’s… is there something you wished to discuss?” he asks as they slow to a halt, eyes curious as they linger on her face.

Catheryn inhales deeply, the fingers of her free hand twisting so viciously in her tunic that she can feel the press of her nails through the soft cotton fabric. _Talk to him_ , Dorian had made her promise, like it is the easiest thing in the world except for right now, from where she stands, she suddenly can’t make the words come out of her mouth. Can’t force them past the clawing ball of fear that forms in her throat.

“Cullen… I care for you and…” she winces at the word choice. _I care for you_ sounds juvenile and does not even begin to encompass the feelings she has for the golden haired, amber eyed warrior standing before her.

“What’s wrong?” It’s the quiet concern in his voice that does her in, the way his beautiful gaze rests on her. There’s an unhurried stillness, a peacefulness so rarely seen on his form that says louder than words that he is willing to stand there and wait all day, for as long as she needs, to say whatever it is that she needs to say.

“I…” Catheryn takes another deep, steadying breath and dives. _You’ve fought dragons, darkspawn, and more demons than you can count. You can have a conversation like a fucking adult,_ she tells herself. Another breath.  “I know you are my friend – one of my best and dearest,” she whispers, letting the words march themselves slow and steady off the edge of her tongue, “and I would not jeopardize it for the world but… could you ever think of me as anything _more_?” Her calm breaks at the end, twisting her words into a wistful lilt.

“I could,” Cullen breathes out almost instantly as he stares at her. “I mean, I do… think of you.” Catheryn’s knees try to buckle beneath her as his words sink in and she catches herself with a hand on the wall behind her, his grip tightening on her hand as he stares at her. “…And what I might say in this sort of situation,” he mutters almost sheepishly, his free hand gripping the back of his neck so tightly the knuckles are white.

Corypheus could have landed his damn dragon in Skyhold’s courtyard in that moment and Catheryn wouldn’t have noticed. She is too busy focusing on trying to breathe, too lost to the way the sunlight is making the man across from her shine like molten gold, the heat of his stare making every muscle in her body tremble.

“What’s stopping you?”

“ _Maker’s breath…_ ” he curses quietly, his body jerking a step closer at her question. “You’re the _Inquisitor_. We’re at _war_. And you…” He let his free hand drop, caressing gently along the curve of her womb. “You were with Thom and then this and…I didn’t think it was possible,” he confesses softly, the words a poor substitute for all the things written on his face. But she understands, at least a little.

Catheryn licks her lips, breath hitching as his pupils dilate, tracking the movement of her tongue. “Oh, Cullen…” she whispers. “I’m right here, aren’t I?” Her words seem to be a siren’s song, pulling him nearer with each syllable. He is close enough now that she can feel the heat of his body and the heat of the sun reflecting off of his armor. He is close enough that the fur lining on his new coat is dangerously close to tickling her face.

“So you are… “Another step pushes Catheryn right up against the wall of the battlement, slotting him partially between her legs and yet surrounding her, blocking everything out but the visage of him. He is close, so very close, with hands feather light against the curve of her hips. “It seems too much to ask,” He murmurs, his words brushing across her lips, “but I want to…”

“Commander!” Cullen freezes, a deep growl rumbling up from his chest. “You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.”

“What?” he snarls as he turns, keeping most of her tucked behind him. Catheryn doubts he realizes the protective gesture and it makes it all the more sweet. She tips her head to peer around him and see who has dared interrupt them.

 Ah. Jim. Of course it is Jim.

She's going to need to have a word with Leliana about him.

“Sister Leliana’s report,” the spy continues, completely unaware that he is about two seconds away from being pitched screaming over the battlements. Sensing Cullen’s movement he glances up. “You wanted it delivered ‘ _without delay_ ’…” she blushes and turns away a little as he catches her eye, his gaze darting between their bodies several times before it clicks. “Or…. To your office…” he scrambles, all but falling over himself to get away as he realizes the precarious nature of his continued existence. “Right.”

Cullen lets him go.

Catheryn drags a hand across her face and sighs.  Figures. “If you need to…” Cullen rounds on her as soon as she begins to speak, giving her exactly half a second to wonder what in the world he is doing before, “ _Oh,”_ she gasps into his mouth as his hands smooth down the line of her waist and tighten on the curve of her hips, pulling her tight into the line of his body and holding her there why he feeds at her mouth.

Feeds. Ravages. Those are the only words she can think to describe it as his mouth closes over hers, teeth nipping at her lower lip. It is the kiss of a man who is not going to let what he wants slip through his fingertips. Catheryn can feel his desire like a physical thing pulsing between them, beating like a living entity at every point they touch.

The growl of pure _want_ that rumbles in his chest shatters her surprise, spurning her into action. Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition is _kissing her_. She has to kiss him back. She has to touch him. Catheryn clutches at him as he grasps at her, one hand sliding up the line of his neck to tangle her fingers in the silken strands of his hair. He shudders against her as her nails scrape along the tender flesh at the nape of his skull and Catheryn sighs, letting her mouth fall open to his questing tongue.  Something changes as his tongue slides alongside hers, the desperation leaking out of the kiss to be replaced by something sweeter and infinitely more dangerous.

Catheryn’s chest is heaving when they finally part, lungs screaming for air. A fact that Cullen notices, eyes lingering on the curves of her breasts as another shuddering groan escapes him. “I’m sorry… that was… um…” he trails off awkwardly. “Really nice.”

Catheryn smiles at him and pointedly doesn’t giggle. Maker, she _doesn’t_.  “ _That_ was what I wanted,” she husks, eyes lingering on his lips, on that damned mouth scar, as she lets herself gaze at him with all the intensity that she has denied herself since she buried Haven beneath a mountain of snow.  

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes to himself, lips curving into a smile, soft and tender.  She smiles like a fool in response. Because when one of the most beautiful men in the world smiles at you like that what other option is there? “Good,” he adds, tipping his head so that the words ghost along her lips. “Catheryn…” Her knees turn to water at the way her name sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Just shut up and kiss me again,” she demands breathlessly. He laughs softly, the warmth of his breath tickling across her face as he cups it in his hands and is only too happy to comply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time I romanced Cullen, when he finally kisses her, I punched the air and shouted "That's right! Kiss her you beautiful, blushing bastard!" and my husband literally fell out of his chair because he was laughing so hard. And we woke up the napping toddler.  
> True story.  
> (I... um... may get a little invested in the games I play. In case the fan fiction wasn't clue enough.)


	15. Fragile Are the Webs We Weave

**“** _Falon_?”

Catheryn turns her head towards the stairs. “Come on up!” she calls, wincing as the midwife’s fingers slip from her belly and jab her in the kidneys.

“Your Worship, I’m so…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Catheryn waves away the rest of the apology as the other woman backs away. It’s not that Ulla doesn’t like Solas, it’s more that the apostate makes her twitchier than an abomination in a room full of juiced Templars. Though whether it’s the fact that he’s an apostate, an elf, or a man that makes her twitchy Catheryn isn’t sure yet. She’s not sure she’ll ask, either. Not as long as they manage to work together peacefully.

Of course, the twitchiness _could_ be a result of Catheryn’s implied lack of trust in the midwife.

Which is, of course, untrue. She trusts the midwife but Ulla is just not Solas. She hasn’t spent nights at Catheryn’s side, her mana the only thing keeping the Inquisitor from flying apart beneath the anchor’s strength. She hasn’t knelt, elbow deep in Catheryn’s blood as she resets crushed ribs and stems internal hemorrhaging. She isn’t protector or mentor or friend. Ulla is experienced and knowledgeable. She is a good midwife and a moderately talented healer – one about on par with Dorian, which is slightly better than Catheryn herself but infinitely short of Solas’ abilities.

 Maker, she might trust the other woman to do her job but she doesn’t like her. Of course Ulla’s awe stricken habit of calling her “your Worship” and bobbing in respect every five seconds likely isn’t helping the matter. One would think that a resident of Skyhold – who has no doubt heard of, if not actually seen, the Inquisitor do everything from spar to swear to cheat at cards with a bunch of mercenaries and throw pie in the face of very unamused mage from Tevinter – would hold the _Herald of Andraste_ in a little less reverence.

Apparently not.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greets politely as he reaches the top of the stairs. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was waylaid by the Commander and asked to fetch you dinner since I was coming this way anyway.” The thinly veiled amusement is enough to make her smile. He places the food in question, covered lightly with an elegant cloth, on her desk and crosses the room. “How is she?” he directs his question to Ulla who jumps a little at his voice.

“Well,” the midwife replies after clearing her throat. “Her fundal height is still a little low but not enough to cause concern. She had such a hard time keeping food down for a while and she is so physically active…or her Worship could just be carrying small. She’s not that big of a woman to begin with.”

Solas makes a noise of acknowledgement in his throat as he stops beside the bed. “Anything else?”

“No, ser. Things seem to be progressing just fine.” Ulla hesitates as she gathers her things back in her arms. “Is there anything you wished to discuss, your Worship?”

Catheryn plasters a smile on her face and waves her hand dismissively. “No, I’m good. Thanks, Ulla. Same time next week?”

The midwife bobs in a practiced curtsey – a habit Catheryn has been trying to break her of since their first meeting two months ago. So far she has not been successful. Not even when she phrases it as an order. “Of course, your worship.” Catheryn sighs.

“May I touch you, _falon_?” Solas inquires once the midwife is gone and Catheryn nods, hiking her tunic up and baring her abdomen.

“Are you sure I have to keep seeing her?” she asks, shivering lightly beneath the cool touch of Solas’ fingers. A rare smile tugs at Solas’ lips as he pokes and prods, his fingers finding the outline of the growing child within her body – measuring and tracing with touch what the eye can’t see.

“It has been a long time since I’ve attended the birth of a child,” he answers calmly, “and I have never overseen the delivery of one.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I want you instead of her.” It sounds petulant even in her head, let alone coming out of her mouth, but Solas doesn’t seem to mind. If anything her stubborn show of faith makes the smile on his lips grow wider.

“And I have said that I will be there, _falon_ ,” he reassures calmly. “I have spent much of the past weeks in the Fade searching out moments of birth and watching them - speaking with spirits of wisdom and experience who know the things that you would have me know. But I think the others will be more at ease if someone with hands on experience is present. You could learn how to wield a sword by watching battles in the Fade, but should you actually wish to lay aside your staff and pick up a blade you would ask a warrior to teach you. Someone who has fought battles with such weapon and won.”

Catheryn snorts derisively. “Childbirth is not a battlefield,” she retorts, but there is no venom in her voice and her eyes suddenly prick with unshed tears. She hadn’t thought of him doing that. To be honest, when she had asked him to attend her during her pregnancy and birth she had pretty much expected him to refuse. He is not, after all, a midwife or a Healer, despite his healing capabilities. When he agreed she expected him to consult the tomes that were no doubt present in the library – though perhaps dumped in a corner to make room for Dorian’s ever growing collection on theoretical magic and ancient history – and to speak with midwives. She had not expected him to extend his fastidious research to the Fade. Which is a ridiculous thought, now that she actually thinks it. Of course Solas’ first stop would be the Fade.

Still, she can’t stop her eyes from filling with tears at the realization.

“Isn’t it?” he asks and taking her hand he helps her to sit up. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Hungry. Jittery like I’ve too much energy and not enough things to do,” Catheryn replies drily, thankful for the distraction from her emotions, “Which is the exact opposite of the reality because I still get ridiculously exhausted walking up the fucking stairs. And my hips hurt.” His lips twitch again, fingers gently rubbing at the body part in question.

 “But your appetite is returning?” That seems to be the thing that everyone focusses on. In their defense, she _has_ done an awful lot of puking.

“Yes. Mostly.” Catheryn swallows and nods at the tray that Solas had placed on her desk. “It’s been better since Cullen started picking my food. I feel ridiculous – he’s the Commander of the army, one of the most powerful people in the Inquisition and I have him picking out my dinner. He’s observant though,” she adds, “and that’s what is helping. He always seems to know exactly what I need, when I need it.”

 “I am happy for you, _falon_ ,” Solas squeezes her hands gently before releasing them. “Cullen is a good man.”

“So is Thom.” Catheryn doesn’t know why she says it. No, that’s not quite true. There’d been something in his voice, a bitter disappointment that couldn’t be hidden.

The smile dies from Solas’ face and his lip press into a thin line. “What he did…”

“… he has been paying for since the moment it happened,” Catheryn tells him gently. She knows it, more than most. She had seen it in his eyes, even when she didn’t know what she was looking at.  “And in trying to pay for it – in trying to fix what had gone wrong he hurt _us_.” Solas looks away but Catheryn touches his arm anyway. “That doesn’t make him a bad person.”

“So easily you forgive him.”

“Yes,” Catheryn sighs. “And no. I still can’t think on what he did as Thom Rainier without my hands shaking and gut clenching. He murdered children. Innocent, defenseless children. There is no forgiveness that covers that. But Cullen is right – he recognized his wrong. He has tried to change, to atone, to be a better man. He has tried to fix what he did wrong, to balance the blood that stains his hands.”

“There was a saying among my people:  _A healer has the bloodiest hands.”_ He is quiet for a moment, staring into a distance she cannot see.  “It cannot be that simple.”

“Sometimes it _is_ that simple. His crimes were awful and his betrayal… In a way, that was worse than the crime - at least for us,” Catheryn tells him, “but it doesn’t change the intentions behind it. He is a good man and he deserves the chance to atone – to right his wrongs as best as he is able. We are more than our pasts.”

“You believe this?” Solas whispers, head canted to the side as he turns his gaze back to her. Catheryn nods beneath the searching silver of his gaze.

 “Yes.”

 A deep sigh ripples through Solas’ body, leeching the tension from his body and leaving him limp and boneless in its wake. “Then I will try,” he whispers.

He finishes the rest of his ministrations in a comfortable silence, the weight of his magic drifting between them. When he is done they sit across from each other at her desk and she shakes her head at him as he carefully picks over the food the Commander had sent up, picking out the best pieces and setting them before her.

“You’re as bad as Cullen,” she mutters with a fond smile as she picks up a piece of the apple that he had sliced for her and dips it in the honey drizzled yogurt.

“Hardly,” the elf demurs with a twitching smile of his own. He doesn’t grimace as he pours her a cup of tea but it’s a near thing and it makes her laugh.

“Seriously, I can pour my own tea.”

“Of course, but you take care of everyone else all the time. It is… pleasant to be allowed to occasionally care for you in return.”

Catheryn blinks and accepts the warmed cup, the surface of the tea clouded with swirls of milk. “I… Maker, I can’t argue with that without sounding like an ungrateful bitch, can I?” She laughs and takes a sip, unsurprised to find it ever so slightly sweet, just like she likes it. “Well played Solas, well played.” Tipping her teacup in salute she smirks and motions at the tray set before her. “Feel free to help yourself to one of those cakes – no way am I going to be able to eat both of them.” She doesn’t miss the way his eyes light up at the invitation. Smiling, she turns back to her food and, finishing her apple slice, pokes tentatively at the boiled egg with a fork. It smells alright today, which is a good sign. Three days ago she’d upchucked all over her desk when Cullen had tried to eat one while she’d nibbled at an orange-and-almond scone.

She has three cautious bites of egg sitting in her stomach and is carefully spearing the fourth when Solas speaks again, his voice as cautious as her egg eating. “May I ask you something?”

She pauses and tips her head at him, egg covered fork hovering somewhere in front of her mouth. “Of course. You can ask me anything you want.” She means it, too, which is not something she can say for a lot of people. For a moment Solas is silent, twirling the small paring knife between his fingers with the same restrained grace he uses when he casts. Catheryn, familiar with the sight of Solas gathering his thoughts, simply slides the egg into her mouth and chews, waiting.

“I was wondering… what were you like before the Anchor? Has it affected you? Changed you in anyway?” he adds in a rush, and she can feel the surprise flitting across her face. Of all the things that she thought Solas might ask her – and really, the list is embarrassingly long, though not nearly as long as all the things she is waiting to ask of him – this had not been on it. “Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

There’s something small and frightened in the steely blue-gray of his gaze and it makes her look down at her hand. The Anchor is as it’s always been since it stabilized after her first attempt to close the Breech. It’s an angry gash across her left palm, bisecting the thin lines that cross her skin. It looks like it should bleed, like it should be gushing blood until she can’t grip anything for the slickness that coats her hand. Instead it simply glows an eerie, faded green that – should she desire it – is hidden easily enough by a pair of thin gloves.

“I don’t _think_ so,” she finally answers hesitantly. “I still feel the same. But… this is a power that I can’t begin to understand. If it has changed me I’m not sure I’d be able to notice.”

Obviously not the answer he is expecting. “Ah. That is an excellent point.”

She tips her head further so she can get a good look at his face as he stares down at the table, his fingers picking nervously at the edge of the napkin draped over another egg. “Why do you ask?”

“You show a wisdom I have not seen since…” he shakes his head slightly, “…since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade.  You are not what I expected, _falon_.”

Well aware of Solas’ opinions on Humans in general, Catheryn laughs. “Sorry to disappoint,” she drawls, smirking, and pops another bite into her mouth.

The elf rolls his eyes. “It’s not disappointing. It’s…” he sighs and waves his hand. “Most people are predictable,” he explains, “but you have shown subtlety in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I know of your people.”

“I’m not the only decent Human in Thedas,” she chides, “though I’m sure it sometimes feels that way. But what about Cullen? Cassandra? Leliana?”

 A disproving huff slides across her face as he leans forward, pressing the other cake wordlessly into her hand, the last third of the egg lying abandoned on her plate. “Cassandra separates matters of faith from those of the world and she above all should understand how _limited_ that is. Leliana… she has a brilliant mind but her faith was damaged. To her, it is all a game of tactics now. People act with so little understanding of the world.” He closes his hand over hers, pressing his fingers around the cake until the fluffy white frosting dents beneath her fingers. “But not you.”

She stares, eyes searching his features for some hint, some clue as to what brought this about, but there is nothing. His face is nearly blank, small threads of sadness lingering around his eyes but no hint as to why it is there. “So what does this mean, Solas?” she asks gently.

“It means that I respect you deeply, _fenor,_ and losing you would…”

She catches his fingers as he withdraws, squeezing them reassuringly. “I’m not going anywhere,” she tells him. "Not yet."

“I know,” he murmurs, but the sadness still lingers around his eyes and despite the rest of the conversation that they hold while she nibbles and picks her way through the food presented to her she can never quite make it go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are unfamiliar with pregnancy terms: fundal height is the measurement taken (usually starting sometime after the 12-14 week mark) from the top of the pelvic bone to the top of the uterus. It's taken in centimeters and the measurement usually (but not always) roughly correlates with the pregnancy week.   
> Translations:  
>  _Falon_ = My friend (specifically a true friend, one who is a guiding force in your life)  
>  _fenor_ = precious (similar to the English endearments dear or beloved)


	16. My End and My Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW  
> Oh, look... it's the chapter everyone (or at least some of you *cough*cough*) have been waiting for.

The doors to Cullen’s office are shut. Or mostly shut. One is opened just a sliver allowing the golden splash of candle and torchlight to splash out onto the battlements, pooking a puddle before the door.  _Still meeting with his Captains then_ , she thinks to herself as she pauses to catch her breath. Fucking stairs. She’s not sure what it is about them but every time she has to go up or down a set – which, given the nature of Skyhold is approximately every five seconds – she almost starts to miss Emprise du Lion and its simple snow covered mountains. Almost.

“…Rylen’s men will monitor the situation.” Cullen’s voice washes over her as she slips into the room, her entrance unnoticed by the men and women within.  She smiles and settles against the wall, content to watch the proceedings at work.

“Yes, ser. We’ll begin preparations at once!” One of the Captains announces and Catheryn tries to place her just by her voice. Abelle? Adele? _Abrial_. That’s it. Catheryn nods to herself, pleased that her mind isn’t rotting away quite yet.  Once she had known every member of the Inquisition by name. Those days are far behind them. To be honest she misses it sometimes. Misses the quiet and closeness of Haven. Misses the days when her duties ran more to finding a lost druffalo and less to fighting organized armies of demons.

“In the meantime, we’ll send soldiers to…” he raises his head from the reports held in his hand, his gaze unerringly finding her behind the bodies of his people. Of her people. The façade of the Commander breaks, his words stalling as a smile flickers across his face. “… assist with the relief effort,” he finishes more softly. “That will be all.”

His eyes do not leave hers as the Captains salute around him a chorus of “ _Ser!”_ echoing through the air. Cullen all but ignores them as he straightens behind his desk, his movements powerful and smooth as he gracefully prowls around the curve of the room. The Captains follow the commands of his body wordlessly, filing out the open door with startled acknowledgements of “ _Your Worship”_ as they pass her.

Cullen brings up the rear, the muscles in his arm flexing as he shuts the door firmly behind them, pressing it closed with both hands. “There’s always something more, isn’t there?”

She chuckles softly, the feeling all too familiar. “Wishing we were somewhere else?”  she asks with a smile, leaning closer.

He laughs softly in response, a grin flashing at her from underneath his raised arms. “There is a place I would like to take you,” he admits quietly, a touch of wistfulness sliding across his eyes. “But so far I have not been able to orchestrate the time. Still…” he straightens and turns back to his desk, holding out a hand and beckoning for her to follow him. She does, her fingers brushing against his as he continues talking. “This war won’t last forever. When it started, I hadn’t considered much beyond our survival. But things are different now.”

She tips her head at the seriousness in his voice. “What do you mean?”

Cullen looks away. “I find myself wondering what will happen after” he utters slowly, picking each word with care. “When this is over I don’t want to move on…” he swallows, the glowing gold of his gaze sweeping back to her as his fingers tenderly stroke her cheek. “Not from you.” She leans into his touch, chasing the warmth of his fingers as he stares down at her.

 _I love this man_ , she realizes as she returns his tender gaze with one of her own. She can feel it: a living, beating thing perched in her heart.  It is no delicate songbird, dancing and chirping in its bright plumage. It is a carrion crow, fierce and sturdy – a creature of survival and opportunity. What it lacks in flash it makes up for in endurance and strength. It is not something that will be ruined by injury or blood or hardship. It will hold on, cawing defiance into the air when the battlefield is laden with dead.

She remembers the moment that she realized she loved Thom. Like so many things in their relationship – at least on her end – it had been like getting struck by lightning: a fiery blast of emotion that left her tingling. Realizing that she loves Cullen is a different animal entirely. It’s no explosion of feeling, no great moment for the story books. It’s like she’s looking in the mirror for the very first time and realizing that there are freckles on her face. It’s not an event but rather an acceptance of something eternal and unchanging – something that has been and always will be true.

She is silent too long, lost in the discovery of the song that plays between them.

Cullen looks away, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture no doubt known the world over. “That is, if you, ah…” he leans over his desk, shaking his head.

Catheryn smiles. “Cullen,” she says gently, inserting herself between the Commander and his paperwork and giving him no choice but to look at her and everything that is no doubt showing on her face. “Do you really need to ask?”

His breath rushes out of him in a long unsteady sigh. “I suppose not,” he acknowledges, his eyes lighting up as they stare at each other, little ridiculous smiles plastered on their faces as he steps between her legs, pressing her more tightly to desk. “I…”

A bottle, displaced by her hands as she hoists herself up onto the lip of the desk to give him more room, teeters on the edge and then falls, shattering on the floor. They both inhale sharply and stare at the broken glass, waiting, expecting the moment to break around them.

But it doesn’t.

The mischievous smirk that pulls at his lips and the playful twinkle in his eye is the only warning she gets before he reaches past her and, with absolutely no regret on his face whatsoever, sweeps the carefully organized reports, requisitions, and sundry other documents to the floor in a spectacular storm of fluttering pages.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes as strong hands lift her further onto the desk, armored arms caging her as Cullen lowers his head to hers.

The realization of her feelings might not have been a fiery burst of sensation, but this is. It’s hungry and desperate with plundering tongues, her fingers tangling in his hair and freeing his curls from the respectability he enforces upon them, swallowing the groans that tumble into her mouth as she tugs against his scalp. The drag of her tongue against the room of his mouth and the nip of his teeth as he sucks in her lower lip is a sharing of souls, a speaking of all the things that have gone unsaid.

“Tell me to stop,” Cullen growls raggedly against the curve of her neck as his hands move. He’s taken off his gloves at some point, his bare fingers sliding beneath her tunic and caressing along her ribs.

“Cullen…” she gasps as his fingers brush across a nipple, its sensitive flesh rising beneath the press of the fabric wound across her chest. “Do you… do you want to?” she manages to breathe into his hair. She’s felt the demons circling his nightmares and chased them away often enough to know that – love and lust aside –he might be very serious.

His laughter is low and warm, liquid velvet pouring down her spine. “Maker’s breath… _no_ ,” he whispers, capturing her lips again. “But… that is… if you…”

She pulls back enough to meet his gaze: pupils blown with desire and shining with an emotion that echoes the one beating in her breast. “Cullen...” His name is a sigh that falls into his mouth, a prayer from one mortal to another.

“Tell me to stop,” he tells her again, though this time he amends with, “if it’s too soon, if it’s too much… if…” his words fail him as her lips ghost across his jaw, stubble catching and pulling on the soft flesh of her mouth.  “Promise me…”

“I promise,” she whispers and catches the lobe of his ear in her teeth.

The iron control for which the Commander is famous abandons him, her words and actions burning away his rank until nothing but the man remains – and the man is tired of being patient.

If she thought his kiss hungry before now it is starved, the ravenous desperation back in the way their hands move on each other. He’s definitely wearing too much armor, she decides as her hands brush against hard metal ridges. Her fingers find the buckles that hold it together and her lips curve in a pleased smirk as she undoes them. “Just throw it,” Cullen mutters as his fingers trail down his front, her top fluttering apart beneath his touch and she does.  His fingers are cool against her skin as he pulls her top down her arms and she shivers, the fire in her blood surging beneath his touch.

When she has removed everything she can reach he steps back, just a little, and hastily pulls his undershirt over his head. “Oh, Maker…” she breathes at the sight of the muscled, tawny flesh bared to her eyes. He is perfect – so fucking perfect it almost hurts to look at him. Almost.  She can’t stop her fingers from rising and tracing the outline of his pectorals, swallowing hard and watching the way his jaw tightens and body shudders beneath the lightest of touches.

“Bloody Maker,” he blasphemes in a hiss, his head jerking back as she drags her nail across the flat pucker of his nipple. The sight of him beginning to come undone is one of the most beautiful things that she has ever seen, so of course she mirrors the action on the other side of his chest. He shudders and the ripple of his muscles beneath the tight stretch of his skin undoes her, thighs squeezing together in desperate search for relief at the subtle display of his strength. He holds still, or as still as he can manage, while she explores his torso with hands and lips. Face turned upward, jaw clenched and twitching as his hands tighten over the curve of her thighs he endures her mapping of his flesh. 

She wants to know all of him. She wants to taste all of him. She wants to know exactly how the faint smattering of curly blonde hair feels against her fingertips. She wants to know how the hollow of his collarbone tastes. She wants to drag her teeth along the scars that cross his right bicep. So she does.

She kisses him, her tongue _finally_ tracing the scar that pulls at his upper lip. Despite its somewhat ragged appearance it is slick and smooth beneath her tongue – the result of a burn rather than a blade. Some part of her files that observation away while her fingers follow the dip of his hip bones and slip beneath the waistband of his breeches. Catheryn squeaks as he captures her hands in one of his, his strong fingers circling her wrists and trapping them against his chest.

 “My turn,” he growls as he wrenches his mouth away. His eyes are glowing in the dim, warm light of the tower and she shivers beneath the pure _want_ in his gaze. Cullen stares for a moment and then his lips crash into hers, teeth nipping along her lip and her jaw as his hands tangle in her hair, gently unweaving its strands from the braid that she keeps it in and drawing the waves of it down the bare skin of her back. She moans as his mouth closes over the pulse point at the base of her throat and tips her head back to give him better access, to let him suckle at the sensitive flesh until she knows that there will be a mark. She steadies herself with a hand on the desk, fingers curling against the polished wood as his fingers drag up her sides and slip beneath the folds of cloth keeping her restrained. She stills, heart hammering against her ribs as his fingers find the knot that holds it all together… and pulls.

He groans as her breasts fall into his hands.

She whimpers as his fingers close over her nipples and tug. “Alright?” he asks as his stubble rasps down her chest and she almost laughs.  Instead, she shudders as his tongue laves across puckering, rosy flesh, circling the stiffened peak.

“ _Yes_ ,” she manages and then he takes her in his mouth.

Her keen reverberates around the tower, her free hand clutching at the hairs that curl at the nape of his neck. She is lost, utterly lost, to the movements of his mouth and hands. Lost to the way he sharp tug of his teeth seems to have a direct line to things between her legs, to the way each pinching roll of his fingers and knead of his hands pulls a fresh rush of liquid between her thighs.  The thought of what his mouth and fingers might do down there makes her convulse in his arms, panting into his hair as she nearly comes from the idea alone.

Smoothly, so damn smoothly that it – despite the plethora of evidence that has long since rendered the matter of _Templars_  and _chastity vows_ completely irrelevant – surprises her, he slides one hand down  the back of her leggings, cups her ass in his palm, and hauls her up so that she dangles inches above the desk’s surface. She shudders, squirming in his grip, trying to edge him closer because Maker, he is so, _so_ close and yet so, so far away from where she wants him. He laughs softly against her chest.

“Soon,” he promises and pulls off her nipple with an audible _pop_.

Catheryn whines.

He pulls her leggings down, easing her back down onto the edge of the desk as they are pulled over her knees. He pauses when they get lodged on her boots, snarling at the pieces of leather as he yanks them from her feet and tosses them across the room. One hits the wall. The other hits the bookcase and sends books showering to the floor as he draws the leggings off and drops them.

Placing a hand gently on the center of her torso he presses her back until she’s lying flat on his desk, hair spread out above her, the end of it falling like a curtain over the edge. She looks down the length of her body – past breasts still turned rosy and wet from his ministrations and over the quite noticeable swell of her stomach to the golden warrior standing between her legs.

Catheryn swallows, her mouth suddenly very, very dry.

It takes a moment to draw her gaze past the bulge of his erection straining the ties of his breeches, the small damp spot forming near the waistband dizzyingly tantalizing, but she manages. Just.  “Beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking the outside of her thighs and she can’t respond. She can’t… do anything, utterly paralyzed by the hunger on his face as his gaze sweeps down her body. She swallows, or tries to, when it halts at the juncture of her legs.

Eyes unwavering, a hunter with the scent of his prey, Cullen sinks to his knees.

He gives no warning – outside of the obvious indication of their positions. He simply leans forward and licks a wide path up her cunt, curling his tongue around her clit at the last moment in a move that makes her legs shake. Lifting her legs over his shoulders, a brief smile, devastating in its brilliance, flashes across his face as he stares up at her.

  _He has the most beautiful smile_ , she has time to think, and then his mouth is on her again.

Licking and sucking, fingers sweeping up between her legs to part her folds and lay her bare to his mouth, he has her on edge instantly. He is intense to the point where his onslaught could nearly be considered brutal and yet… he is tender with her and careful. So, so careful. She can feel it though, feel the violence caged beneath his skin just as surely as she can feel lightning beginning to dance across hers and the kiss of the Fade bending around them. Her fingers scramble helplessly at the surface of his desk as she thrusts against his mouth, swearing and crying out his name as his tongue pushes her over the edge.

Cullen barely takes her through it before he stands, pleasure still sparking behind her eyes and swelling beneath her skin as his fingers tear at the laces holding his breeches up. Her inner walls are still fluttering as he guides himself to her entrance and sheaths himself in one push.

“ _Fuck_!” The back of her head thumps almost-gently against the surface of the desk as her back bows, her body rising to meet his thrust, the force of him stretching her and pushing relentlessly inside as her body going off like Santalina fireworks all over again. “Fuck,” she repeats, banging her head again.

 He laughs again but there’s a hysterical edge to it this time, a note that says that he’s hanging on to the last vestiges of reason by a rapidly fraying thread.

When she finally manages to peal her eyes open they nearly flutter shut again at the sight of him with his hands braced against the desk and her legs locked around his hips. His eyes _are_ closed, every muscle in his body trembling.

 “Cullen…”

His eyes snap open at his name, their expression wild, like a horse about to bolt. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she whispers with a smile and to prove it – because she knows that words will not be enough, not for him - she clenches around him, rolls her hips, and watches that fraying thread well and truly snap.

He pulls back and drives into her with enough force that that, despite her legs locked around his hips, her body slides back across the desk. He shift marginally and catches her hips in his hands, pulling her towards him until her rear is practically hanging off the desk. She arches into movements, matching his thrusts with movements of her own, the soft sounds of flesh hitting flesh mixing with her cries and incoherent words and punctuated by his low growls and snapping moans.

She doesn’t realize he’s been using his hands to move her until suddenly everything changes, pushing him slightly deeper, the flared head of his cock rubbing against a spot high within her body that has her screaming in pleasure as small threads of lightning strike out of nowhere, forking over their forms. Something inside the man inside of her answers back – a great emptiness that reaches out and washes over them, pulling her magic off of her skin until she can feel it rolling between them, as shared as their souls.

Her orgasm catches her completely unaware. Probably a little ridiculous considering the circumstances but Cullen has managed to keep her on the cusp since the moment he drove into her body. Each thrust of her hips, each snap of his stretching every muscle in her body tighter she can barely move to meet him. One moment she’s stretched, nothing but too tight thread bridging sensations, and the next she’s languid and thrashing on the top of her desk, scrambling for something to hold onto as her body flies apart, scattering like a thousand motes of dust in the wind.

Cullen is there, though, lacing fingers through her right hand and holding her tight.  Now that he’s within reach her other hand finds his shoulder and grips him tightly. He moans – her name, she thinks – as she marks her pleasure into his flesh and he shudders within hers, the hardness of his member jerking with the force of his release.

He nearly falls on her afterward. Nearly, but not quite. He catches himself on his forearms and heaves himself with a grunt onto the desk at her side. For a moment everything is silent save for the sounds of the ragged breaths that tear from their lungs. Catheryn smiles softly, her entire body still awash in a warm glow as she gently strokes the back of her fingers across the curve of his arm. Lying flat on her back, especially on a surface as hard as the desk, is horribly uncomfortable. The weight of her rounding stomach makes the nerves at the base of her spine twinge and bite but she doesn’t move. She’s not sure that she can move quite yet, to be honest. Everything is heavy and hazy. Even the soft movement of her fingers against his skin takes almost too much effort. Almost.

Cullen shifts against her and she turns her head so that she can look directly into the burnished gold of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs and the words are gravel in his throat.

“What for?” she asks and a bewildered laughter bubbles out of her throat.

“Not for… Maker’s breath, not for this, never for _this_ ,” his own fingers brush across the line of her chin. “But it’s… it’s been a very long time since I’ve done this and even longer since I actually wanted it,” he admits quietly. Catheryn’s heart stutters in her chest as he exhales shakily. “Maker, I’ve never _wanted_ something so much in my life,” he whispers, “and I was… I was so rough. I could have hurt you. I could have hurt the baby. I…”

“… you didn’t.”

He pauses, worry peering out at her. “Are you sure?”

Catheryn chuckles softly. “Yes. And Cullen? That was _exactly_ what I needed. Maker, I cannot tell you how much.” Or, she could, but it would be a very embarrassing conversation.  Judging by the soft laugh coming from between his lips, though, he could probably guess. “Besides, if anyone should be apologizing for roughness it should be me,” she adds, moving her fingers up to brush the marks her nails had etched into the skin of his arm.

Cullen blinks and then shifts his head so that he can look down at the wounds in question. Lazily, his lips curl into an indolent, pleased smile. “Don’t apologize,” he growls softly. “I…I enjoyed it.” The gold of his eyes are bubbling with heat and Catheryn’s entire body clenches as she feels an answering desire curl through her. Apparently she is not done _needing._ Apparently neither of them are.

“Cullen…”

His fingers slip down the line of her throat as he kisses her softly. “Let’s take this up to the bed.”

“Yes, please.”

He laughs again - a deep, rich sound that strokes against her skin like a physical touch, making her shiver as he pushes himself off the desk. Taking her hands he pulls her into a sitting position, holding her to his chest as she wavers, groaning at the way her lower spine snaps and cracks as it’s freed. She groans again, this time in relief, as his hands slip behind her, knuckles kneading at the troublesome spot. “Thank you,” she murmurs into the taunt skin of his chest.

“It’s my fault. We should have gone up to the bed in the first place.”

Catheryn shakes her head as he steps away and begins to pick up the pieces of his armor that they had thrown willy-nilly around the office, placing it on its stand. “Uh-huh. Nope. Desk was _perfect_.” She pats it affectionately and confesses, “I had… _have_ … a great many fantasies involving this desk.”

“Really?” The look that Cullen gives her over flexing muscles in his back – _oh, sweet Maker,_ _just take me now_  – is enough to make her squirm against the surface of the desk and swallow.

 “Yes. Since the day I watched them bring it in here.”

She has to look away from the heat in his face. If she doesn’t she’s liable to simply leap off the desk and see if he’ll fuck her against the wall – and her back would really appreciate something softer for the next go ‘round. The heat in the air and the thin little bolts of lightning randomly snapping between them leave no doubt that they are far from done for the night.

“But that was…” Something unidentifiable dashes across Cullen’s face and he turns back around, settling his chest plate onto the stand.

“That was what?” she asks quizzically.

He doesn’t turn around. Instead he braces himself against the armor stand, the muscles in his arms and back bunching with sudden tension. “That was when you were with Thom. Did you…”

“Oh. _Oh_. Maker, no!” Catheryn practically shouts as his words filter through the haze of desire to register with her brain. “No. It uh…” she blushes hotly and shuts her eyes. “ _No_ ,” she repeats more firmly. “Dorian and Bull, yes. Myself and… no.”

“Oh,” the relief in his voice is practically palpable. Blindly, she reaches for him and he comes to her, bare feet padding softly across the floor and callused fingers clasping her own. “That’s…” She can feel him shake his head, stalling the words, and he kisses her instead. “Upstairs,” he urges after a while, once their mouths and hands have eased the tension from his body. “Let’s… wait. Did you say that Dorian and Bull have _done it on my bloody desk?_!”

Catheryn leans against his chest and laughs.

 

* * *

 

Untangling herself from Cullen and getting out of bed is one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do – and not just because the man is an octopus in his sleep. Since that very first night in Val Royeux - when it had only been the strength of his arms and the whisper of his breath against the nape of her neck that had held her together -  he has been many things in her bed: pillow, mattress, blanket, and heater but mostly, above all else, a shield. It is only very, _very_ rarely when he feels completely and utterly safe – he, who has endured so very much – that the tension in his body eases and she becomes his shield in turn.

But her meetings will not wait forever and the sun is already pushing at the eastern horizon. Sighing, Catheryn presses the gentlest of kisses to the planes of his chest, just above a purple and red indent of her teeth, and extracts herself from the bed. She shivers in the cold late autumn air, the scent of frost heavy on the breeze drifting down through the hole in the roof as she stretches slowly, smiling at the sated ache rooted deep in her flesh.

 _Josephine isn’t going to be pleased,_ Catheryn thinks as she catches a glimpse of herself in Cullen’s small shaving mirror, a smattering of love bites still visible over the collar of her tunic. Well, she’d be displeased in an official capacity and probably offer Catheryn a discreet bit of elfroot, which will be refused. However, in an _unofficial_ capacity… Catheryn expects that as soon as the two women have a moment to themselves the sunny Ambassador will order tea, send for Leliana, and beg for all the sordid details. Which she won’t give but Maker, it will be amusing to watch her two advisors try and get them.

“No… _no_. Leave me. _Leave me_!”

Catheryn freezes, her boot dangling halfway off her foot as she whips her head towards Cullen. Her mana is already moving, flinging itself into the Fade at the first whimper of distress from his lips. Cullen is a survivor, no doubt about that, but his wounds run deep and the scars that cover them are easily broken. They glow, like trails of fire in a misty, moonless night, cracks in his soul that any passing spirit could see. Once demon-touched he still calls to their attention, a siren song that they cannot resist.

Once she had learned of Kinloch and the basics of what had happened there it had been easy enough to divine that his nightmares – waking or sleeping – were not all the product of his own mind. She’d taken to the Fade and spent several nights observing – Rage, Fear, and Sorrow circled him like vultures, picking and pecking at him relentlessly. And Desire, willowy and fluid, gathered around him like flies to a corpse. Some nights were worse than others but in all the time she watched there had never been even one night where he had one unmolested.

It broke her heart.

It has been easy enough to shoo them away when she is near him, her growing powers allowing her to call kinder spirits – Mercy, Compassion, and Valor – to scatter the vultures and bolster him, to let him be himself and not carrion inside of his own dreams. Once they had started sharing a bed she took a more active role, frequently shooing back the demons and sheathing him in a barrier as his unconscious mind moved about the little corner of the Fade that he liked to frequent while he slept.  Sated as she had been, she’d slept lightly the night before, her attention fixed on the Fade and waiting for the attack that she had suspected would come after the night between them.

It figures that the bastards would wait until she needed to leave to make their move.

Catheryn exhales unsteadily and gently touches Cullen’s arm, magic rolling through the connection of their skin as she softly calls his name.

He wakes with a start: hands fisting in the blankets strewn across his bed, eyes wild as he bolts upright, chest heaving.

“Bad dream?” she asks as his surroundings register, his body collapsing back into the pillows like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“They always are,” he admits, covering his eyes and sighing. “Without the lyrium they’re worse. I didn’t mean to worry you…”

She shakes her head, exasperated, as she brushes a wayward curl off his forehead and trails her fingers down the side of his face. He leans into her touch, lips ghosting over the mound of her palm as she curves her hand around the line of his jaw. “You can let me worry about you a _little_ ,” she pouts.

Her tone startles a laugh from his chest. “All right,” he agrees and kisses her. The sweetness of the kiss makes her swallow, her heart suddenly hammering in her throat as he presses his forehead to hers, his breath hot against her lips. “You are… I have _never_ felt anything like _this_ ,” he admits and the emotion, the _longing_ in his voice nearly makes her weep. Instead she captures his face in her hand and kisses him, kisses him until she’s dizzy and squirming and practically sitting in his lap.

She never had a chance to tell Thom. She’d always put it off, waiting for the perfect time, waiting to _be sure_ – as if she expected to suddenly wake up one day with her emotions swinging wildly in the other direction. Maker help her, she won’t do that to Cullen. She _can’t_.

“I love you,” she whispers fiercely, pulling back to stare into his eyes as she makes her confession.  “You know that, right?”

The look in his eyes is beautiful, the fire that her words light behind his gaze is an inferno that she hopes will never fade. “I love you too.” He kisses her again and again, their touches growing more heated until she pulls away with a groan.

“Josephine is waiting for me, beloved,” she tries, laughing, as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and leans forward to catch her and haul her back to him.

“Let her wait,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth to curve of her stomach. Despite herself her fingers curl through his hair, hugging him closer, breath catching at the unmistakable flutters of movement that follow the caress of his fingers. “The world can wait a little longer to be saved.”

And, oddly enough, today it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happy feeling? Hold on to it.


	17. As It All Comes Crumbling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The first part of this chapter is mildly NSFW.  
> 2) Remember how I said that I wasn't going to put trigger warnings in the tags or at the beginning of the chapters to preserve plot points? Now is the time when that is relevant. If you want and/or need to SCROLL DOWN TO THE END NOTES AND READ THE WARNINGS.
> 
> *throws chapter at you and runs*

The first time he had heard Catheryn Trevelyan laugh he had been on his way out of Leliana’s tent with a fistful of reports, deep in conversation with the spymaster about conditions in the Hinterlands when it had sounded practically in his ear. Or at least it had felt that way. She’d been just downhill, sitting with Varric in front of his tent – the two of them roasting sausages over the fire on what appeared to be bolts from Bianca. Of course, both of them were more in danger of shoving the sausages into the coals at the moment than anything else. Varric was grinning madly and gesturing wildly with his free hand as his deep voice echoed over the noises of the camp and Catheryn was hunched over, the sausage-on-a-bolt bobbing in her hands as she laughed so hard that her entire form shook.

Cullen had frozen mid-step, staring at the pair between the tents. The sight of her, laughing and carefree had been stunning. The sound of it though? His legs had nearly buckled beneath the weight of relief that had washed over him as the throaty noise, deeper than he would have expected, filled his ears and drowned out the high, haunting melody the lyrium sang. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

It still is.

She laughs at the bottom of the stairs, the sound of it floating up through the vaulted space of her quarters, the acoustics of the space reflecting the sound instead of swallowing it. The tinkle of Josephine’s laughter, like a string of bells shaking in the wind, joins it briefly before the sound of the door shutting cuts off the noise that seeks to invade from the Great Hall. He didn’t realize how much noise there was until she shut the door and the cessation of it nearly makes him slump over the desk in relief.

He eyes the healing potion sitting on the desk. Maybe he _should_ have taken the whole thing. It just seems ridiculous – and wasteful – to have to use something that could mend broken limbs or staunch a hemorrhaging wound on a mere headache. Even if that headache had nearly made him puke all over the War Table.

Cullen winces as the astringent taste of elfroot washes across his tongue, making the outlines of his mouth tingle. Maker, he hates this stuff. Hates it with a deep and abiding passion.  Giving his head a little shake he follows the potion up with a long gulp of tea, the cooling wash of peppermint and chamomile a welcome relief to the sharpness lingering in his mouth. Still, at least the potion _works_. It doesn’t, for the withdrawal symptoms. The sheer amount of elfroot he consumed before he realized _that_ … Maker, it’s probably why he hates the stuff so much.

“…balls… shite… fucking… nug-arsed…stairs!” Catheryn’s glare as she reaches the room makes him smile. “I hate stairs,” she mutters, pushing both of her hands into the small of her back. The silhouette of her form - curvy and graceful, her front growing heavy with the child she carries – against the backdrop of snow covered mountains glowing in the light of the setting sun is enough to take his breath away.

 _Mine_ , he thinks and the shock and wonder that fills him when he realizes, _again_ , that it is true makes his hands shake.  “Catheryn…?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. I must have slept funny because my back has been bothering me all day. Leaning over the War Table has certainly done it no favors.” She grimaces and instinctively his hand goes to her as she comes closer, pulling her between his legs. “I could deal without huffing and puffing like a blighted druffalo… _oh_ , sweet Andraste…” Cullen smiles against her abdomen, his fingers pressing more insistently into the small of her back. The breathy moan that falls from her lips is enough to make him shudder against her, all thoughts of his headache momentarily forgotten.

It hadn’t taken him long – less than a day, in fact – to realize that he has a voice kink. Likely because of the lyrium, any disruption to the song it sings in the back of his head is nearly an orgasm in and of itself. It makes it a little hard – oh, Maker, he has got to stop using that word – to focus during meetings because all of a sudden when she speaks he can hear all the other noises that she makes. It’s caused him to lose focus a time or two already, Leliana and Josephine both smirking at him like she-vultures when it happens.

But, Maker forgive him, it’s not like he’s going to do anything to get it… under control. Not that he thinks that is possible anyway. He’s in too deep.

“What about you?” she asks. “How’s the headache?”

“Gone, mostly,” he answers honestly. “I told you it was just a stress headache. This whole situation with Samson…”

“…We’ll find him.”

The confidence in her voice makes him ache. He wants to believe. He wants to find the fallen Templar so badly that it’s a relentless itch beneath the surface of his skin. The world, the Inquisition, _Catheryn_ would all be so much safer without his former brother roaming about doing Corypheus’ will and yet, “It’s been over month.”

He feels her shrug.

“We’ll find him,” she repeats calmly. “Even with his letters we really only had a direction to point our hounds in, so to speak. It’s a big area of ground we gave them to cover.”

“Over a month,” he repeats, voice tight. A month for Samson to strengthen Corypheus. A month for him to make more Red Templars. A month for him to infect innocents and mine corrupted lyrium from their bodies while they still lived, tortured and screaming behind the red. “We’re running out of time.”

It’s both true and untrue. Corypheus’ forces have gathered to the Arbor Wilds like moths to a flame. Morrigan says that they’re searching for another Eluvian but Catheryn, who trusts the witch less than she could throw her, isn’t sure.  That Corypheus is looking for something is undeniable. That it is an Eluvian… well. The Inquisitor thinks the Witch is projecting and Cullen can’t exactly fault the reasoning. Still, despite the fact that their time at the War Table is increasingly spent on troop movements and reports from Leliana’s spies, unless Corypheus suddenly mounts an assault on Skyhold they are unlikely to engage him in battle before Spring.

Maker, he wonders if he will ever get to actually see a spring at Skyhold instead of rushing around and marching off to combat.

“We’ll find him,” she says a third time and he doesn’t have the energy to argue. He just prays that she is right. If nothing else she’s certainly stubborn enough to force Samson’s capture by sheer force of will. “I’ve worked too fucking hard to let him get away from us now,” she mutters, apparently sensing the line of his thoughts. “I did not steal barely legible notes out from underneath the noses of a handful of _giants_ for us to stall now. Do you know how hard it was to hold Bull back? You’d think I’d done something like kick his puppy instead of not allow him to run head first into a deathtrap.”

Cullen can’t help but laugh because the scenario is all too easy to picture. The Iron Bull is arguably one of the most intelligent people in Skyhold – outdone only by Solas and perhaps Dorian and Leliana – but stick something big and dangerous in front of him and he reverts to being a five-year-old left unattended in a sweet shop. A very large five-year-old. With an axe.

“What has you so worked up about Samson today?”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about it. He’s done nothing but think about it all day. It’s why the pounding of the nightmare morphed into the skull stabbing, nausea inducing migraine to begin with.

“Cullen?”

He shakes his head again but the words fall unbidden. “If we can’t find him soon… you’ll have to face both of them. I can’t… Corypheus isn’t going to settle for anything but one-on-one combat with you. Not after everything you’ve done. But he’ll make you go through Samson first.” Cullen’s arms tighten. “Maker’s breath… I can’t…”

“Shhhh…”

It’s a fight but Catheryn makes him release his grip just enough to allow her to slip through them, tucking herself into his lap. He shudders and pulls her closer, tracing her face with his lips. “I love you,” he whispers. It’s vitally important that she know this. That he tells her as often as he can.

“As I love you,” she murmurs back, her lips hot against the curve of his neck.

She’s tired and he should let her sleep. But he doesn’t. It’s all too easy to deepen the kiss, to caress her silken skin with his fingers until she’s twisting and whimpering in his lap. It’s easy to lay her down on the bed and rub at the tension in her muscles until it melts away, leaving quivering, pliant flesh behind. It’s easy to kiss her until his heart sings with her presence, until he can feel the swell of her magic across his skin, slipping the tethers of her control and rolling through him. She cries out as he enters her, the single candle next to the bed casting their shadows on the wall as they move together – a slow, languid dance edged with barest hint of desperation that he can’t hold back.

“I’m right here,” she promises as he shudders through his release, teeth clamping down on the curve of her neck with enough force to make her groan.

“I’ll never leave you,” he whispers later, the darkness of the room swallowing the words as soon as they exit his mouth. “Please don’t ever leave me.” She makes a wordless noise of assent and nuzzles her face into his chest, her breathing coming slow and even as she drifts off to sleep.

Hours later it’s her gasping cries and the metallic tang of blood hanging heavy in the air that wakes him.

 

* * *

 

 It hurts.

Gasping, twisting, dull edged picks scrambling away at her insides. Sure, steady strokes that lobby against the small of her back and pull, the muscles of her abdomen tightening like a fist around her womb as blood dribbles, slick and hot, down the inside of her thighs. It hurts. Maker, it hurts.

She curls over the edge of the bed, shoving her face into the bedding as the wave of pain crests – a bubble of pressure that pops into a cascade of hurt.

“Cullen…” She groans his name between one bubble and the next, hands fisting in the blankets as she shakes. “Cullen…” The answering silence of the room is a pounding, oppressive weight that speeds her heart and makes her breath ragged.

 _He was here_ , she reminds herself as she inhales. _He was here and he…_ The pressure in her chest doesn’t ease when the next wave pops. It’s a tight, clawing thing and she tries to breathe past it, she _tries_ but she can’t. It yanks her up short, a too short leash on a lunging dog, cutting off each breath until there’s nothing but ragged, airless pants. 

Alone. She’s all alone. She can’t… she can’t…

The fear of it chokes her.

_… crumbling headstones all in a row, everyone she loves burned to ash and put in the ground, blood and bile heavy in the air. “Did you think they would escape?” the deep voice cackles in her ear. “Did you think to die in their stead? Precious, little Inquisitor… you should have been harder. They’ll all die for you now. They will die and leave you all alone…”_

“…no!” she gasps, wrenching her mind away from the memory. “Skyhold,” she whispers to herself. “I’m in Skyhold. I’m in Skyhold and I’m…” The next wave crests and something twinges deep between her legs, a sharp pinching that ripples up her spine and around her stomach. She keens into blankets that smell faintly of Cullen. She never thought that she would want to be back in the Fade, facing the Nightmare, but at least it was a monster that could be fought. She can’t fight… this.

 _He’ll be back,_ she tells herself. _He’ll be back. I won’t… I can’t do this alone. I can’t…_

She flinches away from the hands that touch her, a barrier slamming instinctively over her skin.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” a voice, soft and familiar washes over her. “ _Falon,_ let me take a look at you.” She shivers and shakes her head. “Commander…”

“Catheryn…” Strong, callused fingers gently brush the hair away from her face. “Catheryn…”

 She latches on to the source of that voice – a voice she would know anywhere, that she could never forget. _Cullen_.

Catheryn blinks. “You left me,” she whispers hoarsely, burying her face against his chest. His arms are around her instantly, the touch of his hands soothing away the barrier so that Solas’ – because of course the other voice belongs to Solas – magic can flow across her skin.

“I know,” Cullen’s answer is tight and strained. “I had to get Solas.” His lips brush away the single tear that wells out of her eye and trails down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Blackwall … Blackwall left and never came back.” It didn’t matter that the man still sleeps out in the stables, that he still patrols Skyhold and heads up teams she sent out into the countryside to help restore order. Blackwall has left. The man who had come back from Val Royeux is someone different. _I don’t know how to be here, with you as Thom Ranier,_ he’d confessed. But the truth is he had never even tried. She lets her eyes flutter shut as she continues, “Solas left me, too.”

“But I came back,” the elf murmurs from her side, drawing her gaze to where he is crouched. His pale gray eyes alert despite obvious fact that Cullen pulled him from his bed. “I would not leave you _,_ ‘ _ma’da’las_."There is a terrible sadness on his face: grief and anger locked behind a careful, blank expression. It is the same look that he had on his face when Wisdom died. Fitting, she supposes, that he wear it now when nothing can be done.

Catheryn shudders in Cullen’s arms. There will be no coming back for the baby. It is leaving her too.

 _They will all die,_ the Nightmare mocks, _and they will leave you all alone._

Catheryn forces the whimper that rises in her throat back down, swallowing it as another contraction moves through her body. The cool swell of Solas’ magic follows in its wake, his hand a gentle pressure between her shoulder blades that anchors against the despair that wells up at the Nightmare’s laughter.  “They’re getting more… _more_.”

“Maker’s breath…” Cullen looks over her head to elf behind her. “Can you stop…? A potion? Magic?”

Solas shakes his head. “There is nothing I can do. The _iovru_ is gone.” 

“I know.” And she does. She knew as soon as the pain woke her, as soon as she felt the hot slick of blood between her legs that it is over. That the little hope she has nurtured – or tried to nurture –beneath her heart has been extinguished.

Beneath the clench of her fingers Cullen makes a small, inhuman sound. She’s heard it before, when he’s drowning in the deepest depths of the lyrium withdrawals – when the need burns like fire in his veins and he can’t stand, or see, or even speak for the pain that it inflicts on his body. Hearing it now is infinitely worse because this time she is the one that causes it, that provokes such pain.  “I’m sorry.”

If anything the stricken look on his face worsens at her apology. “Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for? I should be apologizing. I should have never… at the very least I should have taken more care!”

“Not your fault,” Catheryn murmurs, tightening her grip on his shirt. That he would believe so is ridiculous.

Solas’ gaze is stern, his voice cutting. “She is right. Sex would not have caused her to lose the child.” Cullen’s face burns pink but the elf’s words don’t ease the devastation from his face.

“Still…” Catheryn covers Cullen’s mouth, cutting off the words before he can voice them.

“Please,” she whispers brokenly. She’s so tired. More tired than after falling out of the Fade or closing the Breach. More than tired than after facing Corypheus and surviving an avalanche. More tired than after demon armies, the Fade, Orlesian politics and months spent slogging through sands, swamps, and death. The last six months have worn away at her in a way she didn’t know was possible – the emotional inferno baring her to the bone and scouring away her defenses. Always he has been her rock, the steadying counterweight to the chaos that seems to hunt her. He has saved her, from death and from herself. More than once he has picked her up and put her back together. He has allowed her to be human – to be _weak_ – so that she can be strong for everyone else.

She needs that now. It isn’t fair and it isn’t right to ask it of him so she doesn’t. Not out loud. But she needs it nonetheless.

The words die in his throat, the blush leaking from his cheeks like ink across paper left out in the rain.  His arms tighten tenderly around her, a phantom of their normal strength. Still, the touch grounds her, giving her the anchor she needs against the swell of the next contraction. 

“I am here,” he promises huskily as she breathes, forcing her body to relax and drift through the pressure and sudden, sharp spike of pain in the small of her back and around her front. Catheryn doesn’t even bother to try and stop the handful of tears that move down her cheeks at his words, their number only amplified as he kisses them away with a soft brush of his lips. “So what now?” he asks Solas when it is over, tightening his hold even more as she slumps into his chest and hides. “I… I am not familiar with miscarriages that happen this late in a pregnancy.”

“She is far enough along that she is essentially giving birth and not miscarrying,” the elf’s voice is cool and detached but the touch between her shoulder blades is soft and soothing, his fingers feather light against her skin, the gentle caress of magic lingering in the wake of his touch. “There is not much that can be done other than wait and let her body do what it needs to do. The midwife might have herbs that could hurry things along or know of some other techniques that I am not aware of. I can go get her if…”

“No.”

“Are you sure, _falon_? I have learnt and observed much these past months but I don’t know everything. Not about this,” he amends.

“Catheryn,” Cullen’s voice is gentle and concerned. “Maybe we should…”

“… _no_ ,” she interrupts forcefully. Unsteadily, she takes a deep breath and forces the panic and bile that rise at the mention of bringing in the midwife. The woman is kind but she is not a friend, not a trusted loved one.  Caught here, between the arms of her lover and the touch of one of her dearest friends she is safe, her sorrows and terrors filtered down to something bearable. This _moment_ is made – not bearable, never that – but into something that can be endured, minute by minute. “Ulla is… she only sees me as my titles and I… I _can’t_. Not unless I must.”

For a moment the two men are silent and then Cullen brushes his lips against the top of her head, “Alright.” Solas’ agreement is wordless but she can feel it nonetheless.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispers as the tightness begins to build at the top of her stomach.

“We won’t,” Solas whispers when Cullen’s words fail him.

 

* * *

 

Cullen has lived through a lot of things that should have killed him. The nineteen years that have passed since he joined the Templars have left him with a lot of scars on his body and his psyche that still send jolts of pain through him on a daily basis. Maker, he’s still startled every morning when he opens his eyes to discover that the lyrium withdrawals haven’t killed him while he tries to sleep.

None of it though, none of it compares to _this_.

In the back of his mind he says a quiet, grateful prayer that he had not found this love when he was younger. If he had possessed this when the demons took Kinloch, if this pain had existed to be used against him he would have capitulated instantly beneath its infliction. He would do anything to take this pain from her, to make it so the child – _their_ child, for all that he had not been part of the babe’s conception – still lived hearty and whole. Instead he is left useless, unable to do anything but ground her with his touch as her body works to expel the child’s remains.

He has finally found his breaking point and there is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that he can do about it. Nothing that will make it better, nothing that will bring it back.

He meets Solas’ gaze over the arch of her back as she braces herself with hands on his forearms and groans, her entire body tensing and releasing in a calculated movement. The elf dips his head in quiet acknowledgement of the question on Cullen’s face, but his eyes are anguished and worried.

Cullen closes his eyes and silently prays.

 _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_ _I_

_shall embrace the light._ _I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure._

_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

_Though all before me is shadow,_

_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

_For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_

_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

 

* * *

 

Time disappears. It doesn’t speed up or slow down – it simply suspends.

Distantly Cullen is aware that he could mark the passage of time – because surely it is passing – by the way the moon and stars move in the sky outside of the windows. He could mark it by watching how the fire burns, by how many glasses of water Solas encourages Catheryn to drink – or even by the glasses the elf holds wordlessly to his lips so that he does not have to take his hands from the woman that never strays far from his arms. He could mark it by the burn of the candles or by the way his muscles – already aching and weary from a stressful day – begin to burn. He could even look within himself and gauge the passage of time against the internal clock that a lifetime of farm work and then military service has instilled in him.

He doesn’t though.

He simply lets himself exist in the bubble that the three of them have spun around themselves.

Later, when he looks back on this night, he will remember sensations. He will remember the way Catheryn’s skin pales, its surface slick with a fine sheen of sweat despite the way she shivers. He will remember the way she holds onto his arms, nails digging little crescents into his flesh, and will bear those wounds for days. He will remember the way her blood beads against her skin, each contraction sending a small gush of it trickling down the smooth, white curves of her legs. He will remember the way the cold mountain wind whistles around the edges of the room, circulating air that might otherwise go stale. He will remember the way the logs on the fire crackle and hiss, sparks popping against his skin when they get too close. 

He will remember the way Solas circles the room, long fingers tracing glyphs – some he knows and others that he doesn’t – upon the walls. He will remember the rise of magic, filling the room like water until he drowns in it, the echoes of his Templar powers strangely quiet in the face of such force. He will remember the way she sometimes snarls and whines, ripping away from him to pace the lines of a room like an animal caught in a cage. She always returns, preferring to weather the strength of the tempest moving through her body from within the shelter of his arms. Sometimes he holds her. Sometimes Solas joins him and they hold her between them – a mixture of the chant and soft elven phrases that he doesn’t understand filling the air above her head.

He will remember the way her voice breaks as she whispers, “I _can’t_.”

“You can,” he murmurs back, gently stroking his fingers through her hair. “You are doing so well, love. You are so strong.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not. I’m _not_.” The tears run down her cheeks in a steady stream and fall off the curve of her chin to land on his chest. Her sorrow soaks his shirt and his heart breaks anew at the helplessness that washes over him. “I… I need…”

 _Maker, I would take this from you if I could_ , he tells her silently. “What? What do you need?”

Her shoulders shake beneath his touch. “Him,” she sobs into his chest. “I need _Him_.”

Cullen shuts his eyes, senses reeling. Though she speaks no name there is no doubt who she means. Solas’ hands tighten on his shoulders, the elf’s body bracketing the both of them – a feat he should not be capable of and yet manages nevertheless. The lick of magic across his skin – cold and wild, like a snow covered forest lit only by the moon – calls him back and he inhales sharply, chest heaving beneath the press of Catheryn’s body.

“I love you,” she whispers against his chest and the way she says it… Maker save him, he cannot doubt that it is true. “But this child is not just ours. It is his too and he should… he should be here for this.”

Cullen nods, not trusting himself to speak as the sobs he had not been aware of holding back threaten to overwhelm him. _Ours_ , she had said and it pierces him like an arrow.

“I will go fetch him,” Solas offers quietly.

“No.” Cullen lets his eyes slide open, blinking until they clear. “I... I have no healing skills and I will not… I cannot…” Solas nods in understanding. “I will go get him,” he announces clearly.  Despite the fact that she is the one that asked, Catheryn whines into his chest, fingers scrambling to grasp at the clothing that separates them. “I will be back,” he promises. “Catheryn, beloved, I _will_ be back.” He kisses her lips as she nods. Carefully, he transfers her to Solas’ embrace and the slender man takes her easily and with a tenderness that Cullen would not have thought the apostate possessed had he not seen him use it with her before. “I do not need to tell you that you hold my life in your arms,” he murmurs to the other man.

“I have her,” Solas acknowledges solemnly. “Now go fetch him.”

With one last touch to curve of her shoulder Cullen turns on his heels and slips from the room.

* * *

 

The Iron Bull and Dorian are sitting at the bottom of the stairs, just inside the door to the Great Hall. The giant Quanari has his back to the wall, his frame angled so that his good eye is focused on the door, the giant pink and silver gleam of his axe balanced across his knees. Dorian, on the other hand, is slumped like a puppet whose strings have been cut, his dusky complexion pale and hair horribly mussed above a face buried in his hands. Both men turn as he rounds the last landing and stare at him. There are tear tracks on Dorian’s face, the kohl that he lines his eyes with smudged to the point that he looks like he got on the wrong side of someone’s fist. Bull’s face is solemn and set, his quick eye no doubt reading everything that is happening on Cullen’s face before Dorian can even voice the question.

“How is she?” the Tevinter’s voice shakes.

“As well as can be expected,” Cullen answers wearily as he pauses on the step above them. “The… the baby is lost. We are just waiting now for her to…”his voice catches and he turns his head away. Bull’s hand, solid and warm, steadies him.

Dorian keens, shoving a fist against his lips to stifle the volume of the cry clawing in his chest as he rocks on the steps, a fresh wave of tears streaking down his face. Never one for public displays of emotion – at least not until Catheryn had well and truly sunk herself into his life – Cullen envies the other man the ability and freedom to show his grief. His own is stuck in his chest, his throat, choking him.

“Why are you here?”

“Solas’ room is next to Dorian’s,” Bull answers when it becomes clear that Dorian can’t. “We heard you come get him. Figured we should be here for the Boss even if she doesn’t know it. What are you doin’ down here?”

Cullen sighs. “Getting Thom.”

Bull’s good eye widens and Dorian inhales sharply. “Oh, lovely…” the mage looks to the top of the stairs again. “Do you want me to go get him?” he asks quietly.

Cullen’s breath catches in his chest, a sharp, hard hitch against his ribs. Maker, he does. He wants to take Dorian up on his offer. Wants to lean on his friend and pass this task over. Upstairs there is only pain but he aches to turn and go back to it, back to her. He needs…he needs to feel her living and breathing in his arms. He needs to be there to shelter her as much as he can. He needs…

“No,” he answers softly with a sad shake of his head. This is not about him. “She needs him there and he… I cannot let him walk into this blind. If she cannot tell him then I must. We owe him that much.”

“You do not owe that _fool_ anything,” Dorian mutters, lips pressed thin.

If it didn’t hurt so much Cullen might have smiled at their friend’s protectiveness. But Blackwall – Thom – is their friend too, or had been once. If Catheryn had not been pregnant when he vanished to Val Royeux… well, Maker knows things would have not turned out like it has. “It’s his child too,” Cullen offers quietly and steps down between them.

“Cullen.” Dorian’s voice makes him pause at the door. “Do you… do you think she would mind…?”

A thread of warmth uncurls in his chest and his shoulders shudder. “No, I don’t think she would. Mind, that is, if you went up. Solas might appreciate the help.” Bull, he notes, is wise enough not to ask. Cullen trusts the Qunari and likes him a great deal but there are some things that are too private.

“Cole was here earlier,” Bull remarks as Dorian hastily wipes at his eyes with his night robe and begins climb the stairs. “I sent him to inform Red and Josephine. He’s keeping watch outside the door now. Just so you know.”

Cullen nods. “Thank you,” he whispers as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** this chapter contains a late term miscarriage/still birth, moderate anxiety/panic attack
> 
> *whispers* I'm so, so sorry. Please don't hate me... *hides under a rock*
> 
> Elven Translations:  
>  _Fenedhis_ = an elven curse, literally "wolf penis". Similar to the English shit, fuck, or God damn.  
>  _Falon_ = true friend, one who is a guide in your life  
>  _'ma'da'las_ = my little hope  
>  _iovru_ = baby bear/bear cub


	18. Catalyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings apply to this chapter as to the last one. Click back or scroll down if you need/want to read them.

“…and tits out to _here_!”

Thom doesn’t need to look behind him to know that Sera – who is more than a little tipsy – is molding her hands out in front of her own breasts and giggling like the maniac that she is. Maker, he cares about that girl, but she’s going to get herself killed one day. He nods to Cabot as the bartender pours another finger of whiskey into his glass and tosses the requisite piece of silver onto the bar top. He doesn’t keep a tab at the _Rest_ anymore. He can’t. He doesn’t trust himself not to drink himself into unconsciousness like he had that first night of his freedom and the Inquisition deserves better of him than that.

Blackwall, the _real_ Blackwall, had thought him better than that. He had drug Thom from a tavern after a single drunken conversation and spent a week drying him out. Maybe longer. Half a decade later it is still all a blur.

The Inquisitor, _the woman he loves_ , thinks him better than that. He doesn’t know why, but she does.

So he takes his drink – his second and last for the evening – and walks back to the table where Varric and Sera are waiting for his return.

“Trust you to notice her tits, Buttercup,” Varric drawls as Thom retakes his seat, a handful of cards sliding from the dwarf’s fingers to land at the base of his glass.

The elf makes a rude noise and rolls her eyes. “Like you didn’t…”

Varric shrugs. “I’m more of an ass man, myself.”

Sera recoils like the dwarf had slapped her, a look of pure disgust on her face.  Thom snorts quietly, hiding the twitch of a smile with a sip of whiskey. He’s no Ben-Hassarath like the Iron Bull but even he could have told her that. He’s certainly had to watch Varric ogle Cassandra’s ass often enough to figure it out.

_We all have our secrets_ , he muses to himself, _even now._

“Ugggh…! What good are arses?” Sera growls dismissively. “You! You’re a tit man, ain’t you?” Thom doesn’t even bother trying to deny it as her gaze turns to him. He just waits patiently. “So what do you think of ‘em?” She sculpts large breasts in front of her own and Thom, fluent enough in Sera-speak simply asks,

“Whose?”

Sera’s grin is feral and brighter than the sun. “The bouncy little dwarf Quizzie’s got stashed down in the Undercroft. She _bounces_ ,” Sera emphasizes, bouncing in her own seat and he smiles at her enthusiasm. It’s nice to see her excited about something besides shooting arrows at visiting nobility from the roof of Skyhold.

“Ah, Dagna,” he nods knowingly. “She’s got a nice pair on her.”

“ _Nice_?!?” screeches Sera, drawing the attention of half the tavern. “They’re fuckin’ amazing!”

Now it’s Thom’s turn to shrug. He doesn’t have anything else to give her. It’s true he enjoys a woman’s breasts. Fuck, who is he kidding? A nice pair of bouncing tits is enough to make him harder than iron in his pants. Or at least they used to be. Before Catheryn. Now... they’re just a shadow of pleasure, a cursory acknowledgement of something primal deep within his psyche. His whole life is that way now. He’s experienced perfection, attained the pinnacle of existence, and he has lost it. Everything is nothing more than an echo now.

It’s more than he thought he would ever get again but it’s not enough. Not when he’s had gentle touches and breath stilling kisses. Not when he knows what a perfect trust looks like shining out of her face. Not when his body remembers fire and lightning and pleasure filled screams that still wake him in the dead of the night, hand on his cock as he milks the last of his empty release from his body.

 Sera narrows her eyes at him. “ _Pfffbt_. Quizzies’s tits are amazeballs but they’re not the only ones in the world.”

Varric stiffens at his side, sucking in his breath through his teeth, no doubt expecting Thom to get up and leave. He’s done it before, after all. It’s getting easier to exist in the same place as Her and know that he can’t touch her or hold her, that he can’t do anything but watch from a distance. Still, some days even watching is too much.  Too much to see her as she prowls around Skyhold with Cullen at her side, the Commanders golden gaze possessive and gentle as it lingers on her form. Too much to know that someone else has picked up what he had been foolish enough to lose – no, foolish enough to forsake.

Even though he knew that it would happen – Maker, even though he knew that it would be _Cullen_ – he had not expected it to happen so quickly. Or to have such obvious results.  The first time he had seen her rounding form, highlighted by the winds of Skyhold and silhouetted against the blue of the sky it had taken him to his knees, a wordless keen rising unbidden from his chest.

It's too much, too hard, too soon.

But it will always be too soon and it will always be too much, even if he is happy for her, for _them_ , in the quiet corners of his heart. The happiness is made bittersweet, tempered by his own loss.

“They are to me,” he admits quietly and then tosses a shining piece of gold onto the table before either one of them can make it more Maker-fucking-weird than it already is. “You’re up.”

They play a handful of rounds of Wicked Grace – gradually returning to robust laughter as they take turns regaling each other with entertaining bits from their pasts - before Sera’s drinking catches up with her and she passes out in her chair between sweeping the table and the dealing of the next hand. Probably for the best, Thom decides, as he picks up her cards. She’d have won again and that would have made her nigh unbearable. She’s worse than Dorian when she wins a lot. Which is saying something as Dorian is the most prideful, boastful man Thom has ever met – and he served for over a decade in _Orlais_.

“Thanks for this,” Varric grunts from the doorway as Thom lays the unconscious Sera down on her bed. Small as she is there’s barely room for her among the scatter of rich pillows and thick blankets that put some of the finest guest rooms in Skyhold to shame.

“It’s nothing,” Thom dismisses. “I couldn’t leave her down there all night and…” he trails off, his eyes doing a quick one-over of the dwarf’s shorter form.

Varric shrugs. “She’s already crazy. Another bump or two on the head wouldn’t have hurt her.” He pauses, scratching at his chest as the elf in question lets out a huge, rattling snore and burrows into her nest. “Probably,” he adds after a beat. “That isn’t what I meant though. It’s… good to see you with your head out of your ass and interacting with the rest of us.”

“Really? I thought you liked the _grizzled loner_ persona.” They step out of Sera’s room, closing the door behind them.

“As a character, I absolutely do,” Varric agrees blithely. “But real life is different than in stories. In real life the _grizzled loner_ is just boring. It always puzzled the shit out of me how you managed to land Kitten  - but she always does manage to see past the story that we tell ourselves.”

Thom nods gently as they lean against the balcony, looking out at the tavern below. It’s winding down for the night. Maryden has vacated her post for her bed and most of the Chargers have vanished from their customary corner. Cabot is busy cleaning behind the bar between serving the handful of soldiers that had stumbled in while they were tucking Sera in bed – part of the First Watch no doubt, looking for a bit of drink and food after being released from their posts.  “Boring, huh? That’s better than dreadful, I suppose.”

“We’re all dreadful. Every one of us, fundamentally flawed in a hundred different ways. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Varric waves his hand in a motion that encompasses the whole of Skyhold around them. “Take all the risks, so the good people stay home where it’s safe.” He fixes Thom with a steady look of understanding. “With the whole “ _Blackwall”_ thing you told a story so compelling that even you started to believe it.”

After a moment Thom shakes his head and looks away. “That’s much nicer than saying ‘ _You’re a dirty liar’_. I’ll take it.”

The comment surprises a bark of laughter from the dwarf’s deep chest. “It’s not about _taking it_ Thom,” he drawls. “It’s about _owning it_. A story-teller has to believe his own story or no one will. Thing is? As happy as I am to see you poke your grizzled head out of the stables, whatever story you’re telling now – I don’t think you believe it.” The dwarf pauses and opens his mouth but then stops and shakes his head again instead. “Good night, Thom,” he finishes instead, clapping the taller man on the arm, and heading off to his own room.

 

* * *

 

The stables are quiet, the mounts having long since bedded down in their beds of straw and soft wood shavings, and dark, lit only by the dying fire burning in the hearth and the sliver of the moon peeking through the clouds. Thom pauses in the entrance and forces himself to take a deep breath. It’s always a trial to come back here – just as it’s always a trial to leave. Here is where he stole many, many moments – more than he should have – with Catheryn. Here is where they talked, laughed, and argued. Here is where they kissed, and touched, and loved. Here is where he left her and where she left him.

Josephine has offered, multiple times in the past year, to get him a proper room. In the beginning he dismissed her out of hand, knowing that their resources could be better spent elsewhere. Lately, he has entertained the offer more seriously but ultimately he still turns her down and no doubt will continue to turn her down. There are echoes of Catheryn here, echoes that cut him to the core every time they dance across his memory, but he cannot imagine existing in a place that holds no memory of her. Of _them._

Maker help him, he cannot let go of that – of what they had. If he’s being honest, he knows that he’ll never be able to let go, that he’ll live in these stables until some monster finally claims his life.

Varric’s wrong, he thinks as he crosses to his workbench. It’s not that he doesn’t believe his story, it’s simply that he doesn’t have one.

The new block of wood is smooth beneath his fingertips, tight and relatively free of imperfections. He has spent weeks looking for the perfect piece for his next project. The rocking horse, finally complete, has taken up its post in the garden. Sometimes he sits there amidst the carefully cultivated herbs and smattering of flowers and listens to the children play. It is the only relief left to him.  He has promised them another – perhaps in the shape of a griffon or a dragon – once The Project is done.

He knew he would build it the moment he saw her, the moment he _realized_. Even from his position on his knees, the remnants of his heart breaking anew in his chest, he knew that he would do this. For her and the Commander – the woman he loves and the man who had been one of his friend, his brother. They’re the best people he's ever known and they deserve this, deserve something from him - something good. He doesn’t know if they will take it, if they could accept a thing from one such as he, from a murderer with the stain of children’s blood etched upon his soul, but he will make it anyway. He has too.

A cradle to sit next to their bed, a place for their child to lay its head.

For now it is nothing more than a rectangle of wood, carefully hollowed into a large, oval bowl that will gradually give way to a rocking base. Eventually though it will be beautiful, the soft gold of the wood polished until it matches Cullen’s eyes and the sides carved into intricate scenes of marabi pups playing amidst beds of scrolling elfroot vines.

Thom doesn’t expect that there will be much of him left once he’s done.

Not nearly exhausted enough to face the bed in the loft upstairs he selects a tool from the leather case and goes to work, losing himself in the whisper and curve of the wood.

 

* * *

 

“Thom.” The voice snaps him from his work and he blinks at the sudden rush of darkness, the fire in the hearth reduced to nothing more than embers.

“Cullen,” he acknowledges carefully as he lays the tools down upon the worktable. He’s not sure he trusts himself to turn around and look at the man who holds everything Thom has ever desired. He’s not sure he can keep the envy and regret from his face. “Why are you here?” he keeps his voice even and neutral despite the sudden racing of his heart. Maker, what would bring the Commander to the stables in the dead of night? To _him_ , of all people? Of all the things he can imagine – everything from an imminent attack by Corypheus on up to Catheryn finally coming to her senses and having him executed – none of it is particularly good.

“I need you to come with me.”

“Why?” Thom finally looks, pivoting on one heel so he can watch the Cullen shift in the shadows beyond the reach of the fire’s glow.

The other man grips the back of his neck so hard that the tendons in his arm stand out from his flesh in stark relief. “Catheryn needs you,” he finally mutters, forcing the words between clenched teeth.

Thom stares. Catheryn needs _him?_ The idea is fucking laughable. Cullen certainly thinks so. Well, not laughable, but it’s clear that the Commander would be more comfortable standing on a pyre with Andraste than he is standing in the stables.

“No she doesn’t,” he snaps to cover the fact that he’s floundering.

Cullen snarls like the lion for which he is called. “It wasn’t a request.”

Thom crosses his arms across his chest, lips curling back in a snarl of his own. “We’re not in the middle of a fucking battle, _Commander_. It’s already over. I had everything and I lost it. You’ve won. I know my place,” he spits venomously, “and it isn’t with _her_.”

“You fucking son of a bitch…”

Cullen moves so swiftly that Thom can barely track his movements. He twists and ducks, barely avoiding the first punch that the younger man throws at him and fails entirely to get out of the way the hand that grabs him and slams him into the pillar beside the workbench. The second punch takes him straight in the gut, all the air falling from his lungs.

Put a sword in his hands and he can hold his own against the Commander – possibly even best him, if he’s lucky, though since the day he watched Cullen put Bull in the dust he’s doubted that possibility more and more. But in straight up hand to hand? He doesn’t do much wrestling anymore. Now that he’s not drinking until they have to throw him out he doesn’t have reason to. Cullen, on the other hand, spends a great deal of time training and demonstrating for their soldiers – in all sorts of combat. And breaking up the bar fights that the Chargers start when they get bored. It’s enough to, if not hone his skills, at least keep them a great deal fresher than Thom’s.

Or maybe he’s just too tired to fight back.

_No, that’s not it_ , he growls inside his head as he drops, lunging for Cullen and tackling him around the middle.

They roll in the dirt for a moment, a flurry of arms and legs and flexing muscle in a struggle that has them both snarling and growling like beasts. It ends quickly, with Cullen’s knee pressed into his chest and his forearm laid across his throat with just enough strength to force Thom to yield.

“ _Catheryn_ ,” Cullen snaps and Thom flinches beneath him as the other man mimics his inflection from earlier, “is up there _miscarrying your child_. I don’t bloody _care_ if you want to come or not. You _will._ Even if I have to bind you and drag you up every single stair.”

Once he had had the misfortune of being jumped on by two Terror demons at the same time, their long spindly limbs thrusting him to the earth and scrambling at his armor until their talons pierced his flesh, spearing and scraping between ribs and organs like they were nothing. The weight of Cullen’s words as they hit him feels a bit like that.

All the fight vanishes from his body, draining from him like the blood from his face. “M-my…?” he can’t even form the words. He can still hear them ringing in his head but he can’t make them come out of his lips. Maker, he can’t even make air come out of his lips. He can’t breathe.  Maybe it’s just the weight on his chest…? But, no, Cullen has moved and is crouching at his side.

“Yours,” his former friend acknowledges tightly and it’s another blow to his gut. He inhales sharply once and then again, desperately trying to right himself. _His_. His child, his… “Solas says that there is nothing that can be done. The baby is… dead,” Cullen chokes on the word, his entire form rippling with the force of the sob that rips through him. “Now we simply wait and… Maker’s breath, Thom, she needs you. Will you not come?”

The tears trickling down Cullen’s face are as obvious as the ones on Thom’s own cheeks. He can feel them, each of them, burning like a brand into his skin. His child, dead and gone before he ever had a chance to know it. His child, who he had abandoned in his misguided attempt to fulfill a requisition for justice. 

He covers his eyes. “Yes,” he manages to gasp around the aching emptiness in his chest. “I’ll come.”

 

* * *

 

Thom moves slowly, far too slowly for Cullen’s liking. He pauses yet again as they emerge from the kitchens into the Great Hall opposite Josephine’s office. A quick glance over his shoulders show that he’s got a death grip on the doorframe, knuckles white beneath the force he is exerting. Cullen has seen it before – seen it too much, to be honest. On soldiers who were badly wounded or have lost a limb, on people who have been forced to see and endure more than anyone should be asked to. It had been on the faces of those that had liberated Kinloch. Most of the army had worn it in the hours and days following Adamant. Catheryn had donned it in a Val Royeux prison.

“Thom.” He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t yank the older man along by the scruff of his neck or, Andraste help him, punch him. Again. He doesn’t let any of his knee jerk reactions take place because he has been there – he has been where Thom is now, so deep into shock that it is hard to remember how to breathe let alone how to move or speak. So instead of grabbing Thom by his shoulders and shaking him like a terrier with a rat he speaks gently and lays his hand on the other man’s arm. “You can fall apart later. Catheryn needs you now.”

After a moment he nods in understanding and inhales carefully.  Cullen’s lips tighten into a thin, hard line, his other hand clenching and unclenching at his side as the older man focusses on breathing. Slowly, so blighted slowly, some of the tension drains from the muscles bunched beneath his hand and a faint flicker of color returns to tear streaked cheeks. When Thom finally opens his eyes and looks into Cullen’s face he’s a little more present. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs in a rough voice but despite his impatience Cullen can’t fault him.

It’s not about them anymore.

They cross the Great Hall together and if Thom is surprised by Cole’s subtle presence outside of the Inquisitor’s door he doesn’t show it. The boy tips his head to reveal a flash of tired, blue eyes ringed in shadows. 

“It hurts,” he says simply and the fact that he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t start spouting cryptic prose sends a bolt of fear ripping through Cullen’s gut.

The Iron Bull is exactly where Cullen left him, axe steady in his lap. “You’re back,” he grunts as the door shuts behind them. “He know?” The Qunari tips his head to get a good look at the other man and a snort of laughter leaves his throat. It’s not entirely a friendly noise. “Yeah, he knows.”

“Yes,” Cullen agrees as he plants a foot on the stairs. “He knows. Any…?”

“No word from above, if that’s what your askin’. She’s getting louder though and more frequently. Dorian’s still with her,” he adds as if Cullen wouldn’t know simply by the mage’s absence on the stairs. It isn’t until Thom’s quiet “ _Oh_ ” that he realizes that the comment hadn’t been made for his benefit. “She’ll be glad you’re back. Both of you.”

Cullen does not doubt.

He takes the steps two at a time, trusting that Thom will follow. This close, and with the sudden onset of ragged, broken cries, he can wait no longer. If the man doesn’t follow then he trusts that Bull will haul his ass up the stairs – and when this is over Cullen will pitch him from the Inquisitor’s balcony without hesitation.

At the top of the stairs he can hear Dorian’s voice, all traces of sarcasm and arrogance gone leaving nothing but tenderness in their wake. He has taken up Cullen’s position – or a close approximation of it. The trio stands at the foot of the bed. Catheryn has her head planted against the Tevinter’s chest but her hands are wrapped tightly around Solas’ forearms as he cages her body from behind. Dorian’s hands are stroking the hair from her face and rubbing soothing circles on her arms.

She’s in one of his shirts, Cullen realizes as he stares. It isn’t until he makes that realization that it dawns on him that she hadn’t been wearing anything when he had left. That they had both gone to sleep naked as the day they were born and while he had thrown on some clothes before he had run to fetch Solas he had never thought to put her in some.

The top steps creaks beneath his foot and Solas turns just enough that their eyes meet before he lowers his head and whispers something in her ear.

“Cullen…?” The relief on her face is so thick that he can taste it sliding down the back of his throat.

The soft sound of her voice pulls him further into the room, his feet nearly moving in a run as he crosses the distance between them. “I’m here. I’m right here, Catheryn,” he promises as he sweeps upon them.  His fingers are gentle on her cheek, his lips soft as he presses them to her forehead. “I’m right here,” he repeats softly.

“I’ll just… I’ll go wait with Bull,” Dorian murmurs as Catheryn curls herself against Cullen’s chest, fingers knotting in the wrinkled, dirtied cotton of his shirt. He wants to say something. Maker, he wants to thank Dorian, he wants to say _more_ – something, anything to express the emotion he feels welling in his chest as the mage walks away but he can’t. He can’t make the words unstick from his throat.

“Thom?”

The man in question steps aside to let Dorian past, his movements bringing him closer. His eyes are wide and stricken as he stares at the woman in Cullen’s arms. “He’s here,” Cullen answers and stretches out his hand in invitation.

“Thom?” she asks again.

“I’m right here, my lady.” He hesitates for a moment and then he lifts his hand and brushes his thumb along the arch of her cheekbone. “I’m right here.”

In his arms she stiffens and Cullen tightens his grip, barely conscious of the soft soothing noises falling from his lips as he looks down. “You came back,” Catheryn whispers, chocolate eyes blurred with unfallen tears. “ _You came back_.”

Thom jerks his head in acknowledgement. “I should have never left.”

 

* * *

 

The child is delivered at dawn, just as the eastern horizon turns a brilliant shade of pink that makes that snow clad mountains blush. Catheryn squats between Cullen and Thom, both of them holding her up by an arm. Cullen has his other arm around her waist, his fingers tight against the curve of her hip. Their foreheads press together as she screams – a deep, feral cry that makes every hair on his body stand on end as her entire body ripples.

“Here we go, _falon_ ,” Solas murmurs softly from where he kneels between them, his hands between Catheryn’s legs. “You are so strong _, ma’da’las.”_ Catheryn’s cry breaks into a sob as the baby slips lifeless from her body. He doesn’t get a good look at the body in Solas’ hands before the apostate gently wraps the tiny form – scarcely larger than the length of the elf’s hands – in the white tunic Catheryn had been wearing the day before.  “Would you like to hold her?” he asks gently.

_Her_. Cullen can’t stop the tears that leak from his eyes as she nods.

“Yes,” she whispers.

They help her to the floor and she ends up between his legs, reclining against his chest as Solas tenderly places the bundle, still attached to her body by the long length of the umbilical cord, against her chest. “Here is your _mamae_ , _iovru_. You would have loved her.”

“Hello baby,” Catheryn utters shakily, pressing her lips to the child’s head.

Thom is crying as he collapses at Cullen’s side, a flurry of words that Cullen is too tired and too heartbroken to understand falling from the other man’s lips. Instead he lets his head fall to Thom’s shoulder as the older man leans forward and lays a gentle hand across the form clutched in Catheryn’s arms as she sobs.

Outside the sun frees itself from the horizon and begins its journey into the soft, clear blue of an early winter’s day. The world moves on, but here, in their bubble, it is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Contains late pregnancy stillbirth/miscarriage
> 
> Elven Translations:  
>  _falon_ = friend (a true friend, one that is a guiding force in your life)  
>  _'ma'da'las_ = my little hope  
>  _mamae_ = mother, literally 'future protector'  
>  _iovru_ = baby bear/ bear cub


	19. Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A wife who loses a husband is called a widow.  
> A husband who loses a wife is called a widower.  
> A child who loses his parents is called an orphan.  
> There is no word for a parent who loses a child."  
> \- Jay Neugeboren, _An Orphan's Tale_

There’s a sleeping draught mixed in with the healing potion that Solas holds to her lips. There’s no way she doesn’t know it. She’s an herbalist in the way she’s a blacksmith – she dabbles but she dabbles obsessively and with remarkable talent. She’s also a mage and has put together no small number of potions – frequently in less than ideal conditions. Between the two she is probably skilled enough to poison the whole of Skyhold and none of them realize. So of course she knows that they’re sedating her. And she lets them, even welcomes it. She swallows the potion as fast as it is tipped into her mouth, her lips twisting at the elfroot’s bitterness.

From a woman who once insisted on remaining conscious while Solas plunged his hands into the crushed cavity of her chest and knit her ribs back together such acquiescence is terrifying.

He’s not the only one who thinks so. Cullen’s face is a shocking white against the gold of his hair and Solas’ lips are pressed in a thin, bloodless line. Together they watch her from where they sit on either side of her in the bed. Thom crosses his arms across his chest. It’s either that or cover his face and sink to his knees but Cullen is right. There will be time to fall apart later. Right now he is drifting, _useless_. He is not a healer. He is not… he is not her lover. Not anymore. She found comfort in his touch as she labored and he held her together – he and Cullen and Solas – as she fell apart, as all of them shattered around the body of a life that never had a chance to be. 

He does not like being useless.

Grief is not a new thing to Thom. It has been, in varying intensities, his companion for the last seven years.  But this grief is new. It is bright and shining, full of cutting, biting angles and it _hurts_. Maker, it hurts so fucking much. More than anything else in his life has hurt. More… _Andraste forgive him_ … it hurts even more than _Callier_.

But there is anger there too. It is dark and slinking, coiling up from his gut like a massive serpent. He doesn’t know who he is angry at though. Himself? Probably. Cullen? Catheryn? The Maker? Possibly. He’s too tired to think about it now.

 _Envy_ , he quietly adds to the list of bodiless, formless things that consume him. It comes and it goes without warning. He doesn’t know what will set it off or why some things set it off while others do not. When present it flares hot and harsh: no steady campfire flame but a raging inferno that consumes everything in its path. It roars into existence as Cullen drops a kiss to the top of her head, his arms still holding her as her head lolls against his shoulder as she begins to drift into unconsciousness.

When she is well and truly asleep some sort of unspoken communication passes between the other two men and Cullen disentangles himself from Catheryn’s form and takes the empty potion vial from Solas’ hand as he rises from the bed. The elf remains at her side, fingers curled over the rise of her knee as he watches her. The air around them blurs until it seems to vibrate - like a mirage in a desert.

“Magic.” Cullen’s soft voice in his ear makes him jump. His eyes are focused on the pair on the bed and there’s an easiness there that Thom would not have expected to see, not on an ex-Templar’s face. “Healing, I would guess. Can you feel it?”

Thom shakes his head. “No.” But he can see it. Almost. “Tell me… did she… when…?” he can’t make himself phrase the question that he wants to ask.

“She knew before we came to Val Royeux. She told me there, in the prison, after I pulled her off of you,” Cullen answers dully. There should be a bite to his words, an anger at the very least but instead he lets them fall from his tongue as if he were little more than Tranquil. Still, Thom’s eyes flutter shut at the answer, the pain welling in his chest until it eclipses everything. _Children!_ She had cried and there had been such despair, such rage in her voice… not just because of the monstrosity of what he had done but because his own child lay in her womb.  She had conceived of his child and he had pushed her away and then abandoned her. “She was nearly possessed,” Cullen’s voice shakes a little as he admits it. “I had to smite her.”

“You had to…” Thom’s knees buckle and he catches himself on the footboard. She’s never spoken very much about her time in the Circle but he’d overheard more things than he’d ever wanted to know sitting in the tavern and listening to some of their mage allies talk. “No. Please, no,” he begs softly but there is no mercy in the steely silver of Solas’ gaze.

His gut rolls.

“It was not a full smiting. I… I could not do that,” Cullen continues, his words still empty. “But I had to hinder her connection to the Fade. She… possession aside, she would have never forgiven herself if I had let her kill you. She loves you, you know. Even now.”

“No…” His fingers tighten in the comforter, desperate to hold on to something, to _anything._ She can’t love him. He… he’s not worth it. She has Cullen. Cullen, who is clearly better than he is.

“Why do you think you still live after you hurt her so?” Solas snarls from the bed and Thom looks away, unable to face the fury in the elf’s eyes. It calls to the anger that festers in his soul and makes it bubble, thick and black, a tide of self-loathing that would drown him. Catheryn is pale and thin beneath the luxurious Orlesian linens, her face pinched in pain and cheeks lined with sorrow. Even in sleep her grip has not eased, her hands still tight around the bundle Solas had placed there.

There’s no reprieve for him in her features.

He turns back to the elf. Anything is better than facing her grief.

“You would kill me still?”

Solas’ eyes flash. “Yes.” There is no hesitation. Disheveled and tired enough that there are shadows beneath his normally blue eyes the apostate should not be threatening, but he is. There are echoes of that day in the rotunda in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his chin. He is the most dangerous thing Thom has ever seen – his own private judge and executioner rolled into one unassuming package.

That’s what this is, he realizes suddenly. Forget the agony of being brought before Catheryn, _this_ is his moment of judgement.

Cullen’s presence at his shoulder is suddenly much less reassuring.

Thom licks his lips and forces himself to take a deep breath. “Will you?” he asks. He… he does not think he could stop them if they answer yes. Maker, he does not know if he even would try.

Cullen inhales sharply but Thom only has eyes for the elf. It is Cullen in her bed, in her heart. Cullen who has cared for her and loved her – loved her longer even than Thom has known her – but for some reason it is Solas who will pass judgement on him. Who will decide today if he lives or if he dies.

“…No,” Solas growls after a lengthy pause. “Not yet.”

Cullen exhales.

“I would not amplify her grief further,” Solas clarifies, his gaze hard. “Nor would I sully _ma’iovru_ by killing her sire on the day of her birth. You have been given another reprieve. Do not waste this one. Love or not, there will not be a third.” Wearily he passes his hand over his face. When he lowers it he is no longer a predator, no longer his judge, but instead just the Solas that Thom knows – angled features and clear blue-gray eyes. “There has been enough death today.”

Unerringly all three men look at the pair on the bed. One dead and one so deeply asleep that she might as well be.

“Yes,” Cullen agrees brokenly as he steps forward.

Shoulder to shoulder the two warriors watch as Solas runs his fingers in soft, light touches over Catheryn’s hands and forearms, willing them to relax. It is slow going but eventually he soothes away enough tension that he manages to withdraw the child from her grasp. Kneeling on the bed he cradles the still form between his hands and stares down at it with unmeasurable sorrow written on his face. Thom doesn’t understand it but it calls to him all the same, a siren song that he recognizes from the drifting sea of his own grief.

He knows nothing of Solas, he realizes as he stares. Maker, he knows _things_. He knows that he is elven and an apostate. He knows that he hates tea and is cranky in the morning. He is obsessed with the Fade and speaks of spirits and demons as if they are people that he passes on the street. He is quiet and unassuming but brilliant, powerful, and more than a little scary. He is a wicked player of Diamondback and the games of chess that he plays with the Iron Bull and Cullen leave Thom dizzy simply for trying to follow them.          

He knows these things, has learned them slowly over the past two years as they have traveled together, fought together, lived and nearly died together. But he doesn’t know Solas. He doesn’t know where he comes from. He doesn’t know anything about his childhood – about friends, parents, siblings. He doesn’t know anything about the apostate’s life before he arrived in Haven. Solas is older, Thom’s age at least, and perhaps more. Did he have a family once? Lovers? A wife? Children?

The words that Solas speaks are too soft for him to hear. Not that he would have been able to understand the elven words anyway. Hands shaking he raises the child and lowers his head, brushing his lips across the small form’s forehead and does not bother to hide the tears that flow anew down his cheeks.  “Would you like to hold your daughter?” he inquires.

 “Yes.”

 “I was not speaking to _you_ ,” the elf spits and Thom instinctively recoils.

“Solas…” Cullen’s voice is tired, but soothing, and the ex-Templar takes one step and then two and then another until he close enough that he can lay a hand on the elf’s shoulder. The mage shudders beneath his touch but eases.

 “ _Ir abelas, ma’vheraan_ but it takes more than his seed to make him her father,” he says tightly. It is not a growl but only just barely.

“I know,” Thom acknowledges quietly, interrupting perhaps where he is not welcome. “But I… I would never have… I would have been there for her if she had _told me_!” He cries gruffly, voice breaking. “Why did she not tell me?”

Solas opens his mouth but it is Cullen who speaks. “She tried,” he said shortly. “And you turned her away. Told her that you weren’t cut out for any sort of domestic life and that you weren’t interested in knowing if you had any children – let alone actually knowing the children themselves.”

“I would not say such a thing to her,” Thom growls.

“You did,” Cullen insists quietly. “And for it I broke your jaw.”

_Oh._

He… he remembers that day. It is not one he can forget, no matter how hard he might wish or try. Solas had just threatened to kill him – for the first time – and then… Maker, then Catheryn had come to speak to him. She had wanted to talk about him. She had asked about his past – where he was from, his job, and… “Fuck,” he swears softly as he remembers. She had asked if he had left behind a family and he… “Fuck,” he says again for good measure. “I didn’t… I…” he catches Solas gaze. “You knew?”

“Not officially,” the elf responds. “But she collapsed in the middle of the courtyard and I….” Thom swallows. He can imagine exactly what Solas would have done. He would have sought to heal her. “Of course I _knew_ ,” he adds sharply.

They do not speak after that. Not really. It is a conversation that could play out a thousand different ways and produce exactly the same results. Thom is under no illusion that they are done talking. Just that there are too many things already contained in this vaulted room and space for none of them save for their mourning. Everything else can wait.

“I’ll go inform Dorian and the others,” Solas finally announces, breaking the uneasy silence. “I’ll tell Bull not to let anyone in. You should have some time to yourselves before I come back. I…” he takes a deep, unsteady breath and fixes both Thom and Cullen in turn with a steady look. “I would like to examine the child and see if I can determine what caused _this_. Catheryn will want to know.” He laughs and it skates along Thom’s skin. It’s not a pleasant sound. “She’s always hated not _knowing_.”

Thom smothers the strangled laughter that claws at his chest. “That’s my girl,” he whispers.

“That is… that is a good plan. I’ll take her,” Cullen agrees and holds out his hands. For a moment the elf hesitates and then he lays the shirt wrapped bundle in Cullen’s outstretched fingers. The Commander’s larger grip wraps around it easily and with a tenderness that makes something crack inside of Thom’s chest. For a moment the Commander is overcome and then, “Hello D.J.”

 “DJ?”

Cullen’s chest heaves in a huff of laughter, his cheeks glistening in the morning sun. “Dorian Junior,” he explains. “We… Catheryn and I… we had just started talking about names. _Real_ names but you know Dorian…”

This time the broken laughter escapes. Yes. Yes, he does. The preening bastard. The arrogant, fantastic, preening bastard. “Yes. He’s a good friend.”

“Yes he is,” Cullen agrees. “You would have loved Uncle Dorian,” he tells the bundle in his arms. “And I have no doubt that he would have spoiled you utterly rotten. Between him and Aunt Josephine you would have had the whole of Thedas wrapped around your little fingers before lunchtime. They would have loved you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “They all would have loved you.”

Thom thinks of the wood sitting on his workbench, the gift began for a couple and for a child long before this terrible night had risen.  He thinks of the fine wool and silk layette that Vivienne had commissioned from her tailor. He thinks of the army of little stuffed nugs lining a shelf in Krem’s quarters. He thinks of the wide book with thick heavy pages, words carefully scribed in Varric’s graceful hand and their words brought to life by Solas and Leliana’s sketches that stretch beyond the ink of the pen. He thinks of the little toy arrows, and lacey knit caps, and the thousand other surprises that Skyhold has begun to hoarde in the past months and he tries to swallow around the lump swelling in his throat until he’s no longer sure if he’s trying not to sob or trying to not be sick all over the bed.

 “They do love her. We’ve _always_ loved her.”

It’s true. It’s always been true. He’s seen it in the eyes of companions, in the smiles of Skyhold as they track the Inquisitor as she moves. The entire Inquisition is – _was_ – besotted with the child in the Inquisitor’s womb.  They’d loved her as they love her mother – or more so, in the case of Lady Vivienne.

“Would you like to…?”

This time the question _is_ directed at him and he nods wordlessly. Unable to move, unable to even _breathe_ , Cullen comes to him. Maker, his hands are shaking – weak, he’s so weak - but he holds them out anyway. She is so slight, slighter even than he expected, weighing next to nothing in hands used to wielding swords and hefting shields.

“Oh, Maker…” he shuts his eyes against the sight of the tiny body nestled in his fingers, a flash of empty blue eyes and tumbling blonde curls superimposing over the face of his daughter. Another life, another future snuffed out before it could begin. At least this one isn’t his fault, is it? Or is this price he must pay for avoiding the gallows? “Is this how the Maker balances the scales – my child for Callier’s?”

“That is not how the Maker works.”

“Isn’t it?” he wonders softly. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have Cassandra’s faith – I don’t have _yours_. If there is to be some purpose in this what else would it be? How is this anything but a punishment?”

Cullen’s hand is heavy and warm on his shoulder. “I… I don’t know,” he whispers. “But I have to believe that there’s something… some greater purpose in all of this. I don’t know that I’ll be able to stand it otherwise.”

“I don’t know that I’ll be able to stand it regardless,” Thom admits. He slumps against the Commander’s shoulder and Cullen shifts, throwing his arm around him until he’s holding them both, father and child.

“You’ll stand it because you have to,” Solas’ voice is surprisingly soft but it still makes him jump. Thom has completely forgotten that the apostate is still in the room, his presence lost in the face of the little girl resting in his palms. “You’ll stand it for _her_ , because she has to and you won’t leave her to do that alone.”

“No,” Thom agrees, “never again.”

“Never again,” Cullen echoes, with such perfect clarity of understanding that Thom lays his head against the younger man’s chest and lets the tears fall unhindered down his face.

 

* * *

 

Dark.

Everything is dark and weightless. Drifting, shifting, flowing. Rootless, it moves around her like smoke in the wind, drawing her with it. Neither warm nor cold it simply is – beating, pulsing, living against her skin and in her blood. Formless, it fills her and surrounds her until she is not sure where it begins and where she ends.

 _I should know_ , a part of her thinks. It is important that she knows such things. But she can’t remember why and she doesn’t care.

 _That should bother me_ , she adds but it doesn’t.

Nothing does.

 

* * *

 

There’s something familiar about the darkness.

Not in the way it feels because it feels like nothing. Not in the way it looks because… it looks like nothing. She’s not even sure she can _look_. When there is nothing but pure darkness is it impossible to see? Or is there nothing but darkness because seeing has been taken from her? The questions flit through her mind, soft delicate butterflies of inquisition, darting gracefully around the edges before being swallowed by wisps and curls of inky blackness.

 No, the familiarity of the darkness lies in the way it smells.

It smells of wind driven snow and frigid pines. It smells of fur and exertion, musky and sweet.

There’s something familiar about the smells but she doesn’t know what.

 

* * *

 

She’s not in the Fade.

At least, she’s reasonably sure that she’s not in the Fade. She’s been there twice after all and it’s never been like this. Not even the Dreaming Fade is like this. The raw fade is… sour. Grim and green edged in a sullen yellow light. The Dreaming is… bright. Shining and sharp, full of brightness and fog.

They’re the same and not-the-same. It’s important to remember the difference.

She thinks.

There are no spirits here either. Drifting, seeking, tempting – they are always present whether you want them or not.

So not the Fade. In either incarnation.

The Void then, perhaps?

All things considered it wouldn’t really surprise her. She’s not terribly sure _why_ it wouldn’t surprise her but she knows she wouldn’t be surprised.

Though, she’s not really sure why she’s trying to figure it out at all.

 

* * *

 

It comes back slowly. Trickling, oozing, seeping – like water through a crack in a stone wall it crawls back into her head in bits and pieces, flashes of light that drive away the darkness.

Corypheus.

The Divine.

Running. Hiding. Dying. No, not dying, but almost. Hot. Cold. Stone beneath her fingers. Angry voices. Angry eyes. The tang of blood and smoke in the air. Running, fighting, demons. Kill or be killed. Long, thin fingers wrapping around her hand and raising it above her head. The explosive snap, a concussive force as the Anchor snaps into place.

Haven.

Gold eyes, gold hair. A half grin that makes her heart stutter in her chest.

The Hinterlands.

Mother Giselle.

Rifts, rifts, and more fucking rifts.

Druffalo.

 _I’ll try to keep it standing_.

Val Royeux.

Ice. Insults. A careful mask on a careful face.

Too many breeches to count. The refugees don’t care. It’s all fine wool and soft cotton and their tears make her own cheeks wet.

Templars. Heated. Hating. Sick. Clawing at her gut and itching at her teeth.

A steady laugh, a quick salute. “We’ll look for you at the Storm Coast.”

Pressed lips, narrow eyes. “Find me a grey warden.”

Maker help her, _chastity vows_.

A deep steady voice that makes her bones vibrate beneath her skin. Raising, instructing, supporting – she hears him long before she sees him.  Thick dark hair and firm lips that curve amidst his beard. Pale eyes that meet hers across the clearing. An arrow. An arrow is all that stops her from just _going_ to him. She wonders what those lips taste like.

Fighting, fierce like fucking. Heaving chests and traded words. “Save the fucking world.”

Gray. Never ending. Wet and dreary, green and bright. It smells like clean. He moves like death, ripping, roaring, laughing. The Iron Bull – he’s always liked red heads.

Redcliffe.

Not right. Not right. Not right.

Felix.

Chantry.

 _Dorian_.

Arguing. Voices. Shouting. Round and round they go. There’s no other choice.

Recliffe.

Death.

Grating, corrupting, dying. It’s everywhere. It has them. Their eyes glow, their skin sings – it sings the wrong song and they know it.

Blood on the floor.

Gone.

Cold. Nightmares. The song that shouldn’t be sung. She can’t stop hearing it until he comes to her bed with a bottle of wine. They drink it with her whiskey. It tastes awful but she sleeps. They sleep.

Faster then. Faster. Holes in the wall letting everything through.

Laughter. Tears. Puppy piles. Fights. Bad tavern songs and Wicked Grace.

The Breach.

 _Corypheus_.

Cold, cold, so fucking cold. Never be warm again.

Light. Life. Bright and shining in the dark. “It’s her.” “I’ve got her.” “Send for a healer.” “Help me get her warm.”

Singing in the dark.

Silver eyes and freckled skin by veil fire.

 _Skyhold_.

 _I want to help_.

_I won’t let what happened at Haven happen again._

_I can’t be what you want._

Rain. Stone. Mistakes.

 _The Calling_.

Proud and hopeful, hurting beneath his armor. He sees what’s coming and he regrets it. He’ll stop it if he can.

Dust. Dying. Desert. Sands that never end.

Dragons. Rifts. Darkspawn. Demons. Mages. Templars.

 _Blood magic_.

Desperation.

Kisses stolen in the dark.

Fucking swamp. Stupid Avaar. The goat is entertaining though.

  _Halamshiral._

Bright, gleaming, swirling – a cacophony of colors and noise. The jacket is too tight but it looks so good that she kisses the tailor on the cheeks when they return to their townhouse. He stammers. Sharks in the water smell the blood, circling, scenting, hunting.

She hunts too.

Blood on the marble floors. There are some that cannot be redeemed. Let them see. Let them fear. She suffers no fools to hurt her family.

Fighting, arguing. Three hounds baying for the same bone. Lock them together. Snarl until they obey, tails between their legs.

Long, slender fingers catching her hand and pulling her on to the dance floor. Soft words whispered in ear make her laugh even as everyone stares. It’s the lightest she’s felt all evening.

Quiet on the balcony. The moon, the stars in a fading sky. The sun is beginning to rise. Different hands, callused from gripping a sword, but movements are no less sure. They sway softly. His lips taste like wine.

Adamant.

The Fade.

The Divine.

The Nightmare.

Memories, pulsing and pushing as they crowd back into her head. It hurts.

The lines of headstones hurt more.

_Stroud._

Undead. Dalish.

Quiet. Green. Giants. Dragon. Red Templars.

More demons.

More dragons.

More rifts.

More swamp.

A flash of metal in strong hands. _This was my life_.

Darkspawn.

Death.

 _Maker, no! Not him_.

Sweet. Tender. Desperate. Burning.

Confused.

Alone.

The smells make everything worse. The dead make her stomach roil. The blood never comes. “Bright and new, tender and sweet, growing from you and him. It’s not in your head, you know.”

A scream, fear and pain that fills her night.

_Wisdom._

He walks away. Grief is heavy. So is guilt. She doesn't know if he will come back to her.

His fingers, his lips, the thing he does with his tongue that makes her cry and scream and float.

Gone.

Blackwall.

Callier.

Thom Rainier.

Floating, drifting, lost.

Cullen.

Steady, warm, and bright. _Home_.

 _The baby_.

         

* * *

      

Catheryn’s eyes snap open and her chest heaves as she sucks in air. Asleep. She’s been asleep. Solas put something in the healing potion he gave her. It’s dark now, her room nothing more than deep shadows pierced by moonlight. Cullen is stretched out at her side, his face buried in a pillow next to her shoulder and a solitary arm slung low and possessive over her hips. Beyond him, at the edge of the bed, she can see Solas in the moonlight. He’s asleep in a chair – one of the big, squishy overstuffed ones that managed to escape Josephine’s latest purge of her quarters in her ongoing attempt to keep it _respectable_ and _appropriate_ _–_ with a small, cloth wrapped bundle resting in his hands.

 _My baby_.

A soft, broken cry falls from her lips and shatters the moon kissed silence of the room. Her baby. That’s her baby lying lifeless and small – too blighted small to ever have a hope at life – in Solas’ gentle grasp.

“My lady?”

She jumps as the deep voice, roughened by sleep and softened as to not wake the others, washes over her. She and Cullen are not alone in the bed. Thom is on her other side, pressed against her from hip to ankle and currently propped up on his forearms. His eyes usually more blue than green by daylight are a fierce and startling pale green in the moonlight streaming through the windows.  His face is thin, thinner than she remembers, but it’s still him. Here. In her bed. She has wanted him here for so very long but now that he finally is everything is wrong. Everything is broken.

It isn’t supposed to be this way.

“My lady? Are you alright? Should I wake Solas?”

She shakes her head, just once. “No.”

His eyes narrow, gleaming as flick up and down her form, obviously not believing her. Carefully, oh blessed Maker, so, _so_ carefully he shifts on the bed beside her until he’s upright. Gently he runs a single finger across the sweep of her cheekbone and down the line of her jaw. “Are you sure?” he asks and she lunges for him.

It hurts – _Oh, Andraste’s fucking tits, it hurts_ – but she ignores the piercing ache in her abdomen and the sharp spasm between her legs in favor of flinging her arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder. Maker, he still smells the same. On the surface he smells hot and sharp – a heady, masculine blend of armor polish, metal, and sweat highlighted by the faint tang of blood. Below that though, when she manages to nose her way down the bare skin of his collarbone, he is bright and sweet. The smell of fresh cut wood is mellowed slightly by the softer smells of hay and wood smoke.  She clutches at him until she can feel her nails pierce his skin, shoving her face into his skin and inhaling in deep, desperate pants.

“Catheryn…” his voice is so soft that if his lips had not been pressed over her ear she doubts that she would have heard him. The sound of her name from his lips breaks whatever of her is possibly left. Not a dutiful _Inquisitor_. Not a polite _my lady_. Her name. For the first time in months he speaks her name.

“ _Thom_ ,” she cries softly in response and it still feels weird to call him that, even after all this time. Weird, but right, a single shining thread amongst the ashes and ruin. Her cheeks are wet and her tears soak his skin but he doesn’t release the grip he has on her, one arm wrapped around her torso, just above the waist, and the other around her shoulders, fingers tangled in the stringy strands of her hair. “My baby…” she whispers against his skin, eyes scrunched tightly shut. “ _Our_ baby… I should have… I should have told you. I should have… I’m sorry, Thom. I’m so sorry. I…”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he tells her. “I’m the one… I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I shouldn’t have put you in this position to begin with. I can’t tell you how much I regret…”

Catheryn bites him, hard and swift, piercing the skin of his shoulder until she can taste his blood in her mouth. “I don’t want your _regret_ ,” she snarls when she finally releases him. “I never wanted your _regret_! I just… I just wanted _you_ , you stupid bastard.” It’s too much and she collapses again, fingers scrambling across his back, searching for something to hold her. “I just wanted _you_ and you _left_ me. You fucking _left_! Even when you were here…you left. And now my baby has left and I just… I want my baby, Thom. _I just want my baby_.”

She sobs quietly against his chest, too tired and sore to do much more than let the tears slide down her face as she mouths the words over and over into his skin. It’s a whisper, a litany, a desperate prayer. Surely, after all she has done, after all that is happened she can have this _one_ thing. Surely, somewhere there is someone, some spirit or deity that will hear her.

But the Maker turns a deaf ear and the universe is silent, leaving her to cry and plead in Thom’s arms.

He holds her tight, tighter than he probably should, but the pressure of his arms against her is the only thing holding her together. “I know,” he whispers into her hair. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.” She clings to him - to his words, to his warmth and cries until no more tears fall from her eyes despite the shaking of her shoulders.  The smooth rim of a cup is pressed to her lips and she drinks, letting the potion slide down her throat without tasting it. “I’ve got you,” Thom repeats as he lowers her back to the bed, stroking the hair away from her face. “I’m here. We’re here.”

It’s not until the darkness begins to curl back through her that she realizes that Cullen’s arm never left her hips, his thumb rubbing soft circles into her skin as she slides into oblivion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven Translations:  
>  _ma'iovru:_ my baby bear/ my bear cub  
>  _Ir abelas, ma’vheraan:_ I'm sorry, my lion


	20. Dust to Dust

Despite the sun shining overhead, bright and brilliant in a deep blue sky, it is cold. Winter has well and truly arrived to Skyhold, its start heralded by a three day blizzard that set in the dawn after her baby had slipped from her body. _DJ,_ Catheryn whispers to herself. Whatever name she might have given her daughter is pushed aside, buried beneath the affectionate nickname coined by her dearest friend.  She stares at the small wooden box sitting on top of the pyre. It is simple but elegant, a thin vine of elfroot leaves carved around the top edges of the coffin. Even if she had not lain in bed and watched him build it over the past three days, a flurry of wood chips and the sweet scent of fresh hewn lumber filling her room, she would have known it for Thom’s work.

It is beautiful and she can’t think of anything better to hold their daughter.

“My lady?” Thom’s soft question pulls her from her thoughts and she blinks slowly, turning her head to look at him.

“I’m fine,” she whispers and leans her head against Cullen’s shoulder. She’s not, of course, and he knows it. How could she be? It’s only been four days. Her body may be healed, mostly, thanks to the potions Solas has been dosing her with religiously but her mind and her heart are still shattered. The cold of the air is matched by the numbness inside her chest and the blankness in her head. She can’t breathe. She can’t, surely, but she does. She sucks in one cold breath after the other and wishes that it would all just _stop_.

“ _No_! Guttering, fading, the light in the dark is going out. _You can’t let it_ ,” Cole’s desperate voice snaps through the air as his hands latch on to the side of her face, forcing her to look at him beneath the too-wide brim of his hat. His watery blue eyes are wide and bright, searching her face for Maker knows what. Whatever it is she’s sure he’ll not find it. She’s pretty sure there is nothing to find – there’s certainly not a whole lot left inside. “Bright and safe and then dark and barren. There was nothing you could do. There was nothing anyone could do.”

“I know, Cole,” she reassures softly.

“But you _don’t_ ,” the spirit boy protests loudly. “Drifting, falling, _fading_ …”

“That’s enough, kid.” Varric’s gentle interruption pulls Cole up short, his gaze momentarily leaving Catheryn’s to flicker down at the dwarf’s, his frustration clear on his features.

“If the Sunshine goes out then the whole world goes out with it, falling, tumbling, swirling into the darkness that the red song sings.”

“We won’t let that happen,” Varric assures gently, pulling the younger man away. Cole moves a little, just enough that his grip on her face loosens, his hands twitching in the air in front her face.  

“But her pain is so loud I can’t hear anything else,” Cole whispers and for a moment Catheryn thinks that he’s going to grab her again. Cullen clearly thinks so too because his arm tightens around her, pulling her closer into his side.

 “Shit, kid, I know but some hurts just need to hurt for a while before you can make them better,” Varric explains. “You have to let them be loud so that they can learn how to be soft.”

Cole darts a glance from Varric’s face to hers, looking, searching for a moment before he calms, settling beneath Varric’s hand. “Oh,” he murmurs. “I see.”

“Hang in there Kitten,” Varric adds, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to the palm of her hand, “We’ve got you.”

Catheryn doesn’t know what to say so she doesn’t say anything, though she can feel the tears pricking at her eyes as she watches them leave.

 _It wasn’t supposed to be this way_. The thought skirts around the edges of the emptiness, a fierce fiery anger that strikes like lightning. _There was supposed to be something left of me._

“Inquisitor?” Josephine’s vibrant voice is subdued and gentle and it’s wrong, all wrong. “Everyone is waiting – are you ready to begin?”

“Yes,” she answers and shuts her eyes. She’s not, of course, and they both know it. She would have preferred a private funeral, a simple thing done on her balcony with only the Inner Circle in attendance.  But things are not that simple. She is the Inquisitor and her grief is not her own. Not even in this. The whole of Skyhold has turned out, packing themselves shoulder to shoulder in the courtyards behind her.

“Of course,” the Ambassador demurs. “Mother Giselle is…”

Catheryn snarls wordlessly, taking half a step forward as her eyes go to the serene woman standing to the side of the pyre, her chantry robes shifting in the wind. “ _No_.” She can feel the tingle of lightning racing across her skin, can hear the way it snaps and crackles in the air around her. There are hands on her arms, gentle but strong, pulling her back.

“Easy, my lady,” Thom murmurs as he runs his fingers up and down the inside of her arm, soothing her like he would a spooked horse. “She’s not worth it.”

Catheryn snarls again. “No. Not _her_. I will not have _that woman_ speak over my baby’s body,” she spits and she knows, she _knows_ because she has had to spend ages practicing, that her voice is just loud enough for the Revered Mother to hear her.

Mother Giselle, who she had once thought to be practical and motherly and who had instead turned out to be a small minded, power hungry shrew, recoils from the words. Catheryn can feel her mouth curl in a feral grin. She knows without thinking that it is not a pretty look.

“Catheryn…” Cullen’s voice, soft and deep, whispers against her ear.

“Not _her_ ,” she repeats again.

“No,” he agrees quietly. “Not her.” They agree on little when it comes to religion – him being devout and her being… not – but on the topic of Mother Giselle they have been agreed since the day she made her stance clear on “ _that Tevinter_ ”.

“But Inquisitor…” Josephine stumbles for a bit, unprepared for this particular battle. “The people will expect the rites to be said,” she finally offers.

Lightning snaps between Catheryn’s fingertips. “Fuck the people! I shouldn’t have to be doing this at all!” For once Josephine does not have a response, her mouth hanging open in a perfect _O_  of surprise.

“You don’t mean that,” Thom murmurs, still stroking her arm.

“There are other options,” Cullen adds and she knows by the soft creak of leather that he’s rubbing at the back of his neck. “Mother Giselle is our ranking member of the clergy but…”

“… Cassandra.” The Seeker’s name falls from Catheryn’s lips as little more than a breath of air but it is enough to call the stoic, scowling woman to her side. “I would…” the fight drains from her suddenly and she slumps a little before the men at her sides catch her. In battle they have wielded swords and shields in her defense. Now they lend that hard earned strength to the same task but this time they do it without any weapons. “I…” She can’t get the words out but Cassandra understands.

“It would be my honor,” the Seeker tells her quietly.

She doesn’t listen as Cassandra speaks, the throaty, accented beauty of her voice buffering at her like waves upon a shoal before drifting on. She doesn’t need to. She’s stood at enough pyres and heard the words. She doesn’t need to hear them here – doesn’t want them, doesn’t want the Maker to have any part of her baby. He doesn’t deserve her.

Catheryn closes her eyes and wishes, with all her heart, to wake up.

When the rites are over and said Cassandra steps back. For a moment nothing happens and then Catheryn remembers. _Oh_. _The pyre_. _It needs to be lit._ She can see Jim out of the corner of her eye, a lit torch flickering in his hand, but Leliana has her hand on his arm, stopping him. Across the barren pyre Catheryn meets her Spymaster’s gaze and the elegant woman dips her head in silent question. After a heartbeat Catheryn nods and takes a step forward.

Cullen and Thom let her go.

It is fitting, she thinks, that she is forced to do this. After cutting down so many demons and so many undead it is a terrible, fitting irony that she must burn her own child to prevent it from turning into something she would strike down without hesitation should she come across it on a roadside. To save it from being the very thing she fights day in and day out.

“I can’t…” she chokes, hand shaking as it touches the wood. The magic bubbles just beyond the thin barrier of her skin but she can’t call it. She can’t make it cross that final obstacle. “I can’t…” Catheryn clamps her teeth down on the desperate protest crawling up her throat, swallowing down the words even as a high, keening whine escapes through pursed lips.

Long, elegant fingers close over her hand. “ _Falon…?”_

“I _can’t_ ,” she gasps, inhaling sharply, black dots swimming before her eyes. Solas tips her face upwards with a soft touch of his thumb and searches her gaze. “ _Please_ ,” she begs quietly.

“It would be my honor,” he echoes Cassandra’s response with exactness. Gently he places her in Cullen and Thom’s arms, allowing the men to draw her back a few steps, before he turns to the pyre. “ _Dar'atisha, ma’iovru,”_ he murmurs quietly as he holds his hand over the coffin _. “Sule tael tasalal_.”

Beneath his hand the wood bursts into flame.

 

* * *

 

The voices are relentless. They are soft and kind, stern and practical, wary and shaken. They flutter like butterflies and sound like thunder. They tug and they whisper, skirting around the edges of her awareness in a never ending buzz.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“It’s probably for the best, all things considered.”

“You are young, my dear, you can always have another.”

“My deepest condolences, Inquisitor.”

Catheryn wants to snarl and snap and bite, to lash out them like a wounded animal. She wants to rend and tear and shred, to make them hurt and bleed like she does. But she doesn’t. She _can’t_. So instead she looks them in their eyes as they file past her and nods her head as their useless, empty platitudes fall on her ears. The emptiness swallows them up as soon as they’re gone and some part of her is glad that she can’t remember their faces after they pass. She’s afraid what she might do to them otherwise.

Even when she has done her _duty_ and Josephine sets her free it doesn’t get much better.

If she believed in a merciful Maker – or at least one that paid even the tiniest bit of attention – she would have prayed for the talking to stop. Even _theirs_ with their voices that she normally found so soothing, that she frequently held on to like it they were the only thing holding her together. But for just a moment she wants it to stop. All of it.

But her faith has always been apathetic, at best, and right now she can’t even muster the energy to be that. So her lips and heart stay silent.

_Beg that I succeed for I have seen the throne of the gods and it was empty._

Her life, it seems, is nothing more than an exercise in irony. What else would you call it when it is the _villain_ who is right? _Funny_ and _awkward_ just don’t seem to cover it.

Catheryn stares out at the mountainside and accepts the cup of hot tea that someone presses into her hand. A single, obligatory sip tells her that it is just tea and nothing more. She lets it grow cold without drinking anymore. At some point the tea is exchanged for a small, savory tart. She eyes it for a moment and wordlessly feeds it to the crow bouncing around on her balcony. They don’t try to feed her any more after that.

In the background she can hear Josephine fluttering nervously, clucking and worrying like some brightly colored mother hen. Bull’s deep voice, placating and soothing. Vivienne’s snapping retort and Dorian’s outraged arguments. Cullen and Thom, tired and unmoving.

“ _Falon_?”

She closes her eyes. “Make it stop,” she whispers as his hands close around her own, slowly rubbing feeling back into fingers long since numb. His blue-gray eyes are soft and kind, knowing as they search her gaze. “Just for tonight,” she clarifies hoarsely, looking away, because she knows in the morning she will have to rise again as the Inquisitor. That she will have to dress and sit at her desk and look over correspondence and treaties waiting her response. That she will have listen to reports and approve requisitions. That she will have to _care_.

Wordlessly Solas presses a small vial into her tingling hands. It’s small, smaller even than the little bottles they use to dole out lyrium to their Templars . The potion itself is even smaller, a thin snake of shining black hung suspended in the familiar cherry red of an elfroot based healing potion. She pulls the cork from the top and tips the contents down her throat, knocking it back with the same grimace that she’d give a shot of Bull’s _maraas-lok._

Solas catches her when she falls.

After that, everything mercifully ends.

 

* * *

 

It is night when she returns. She knows without opening her eyes, the warm gold of sunlight and torches replaced with the cool silver of moonlight pressing against the outside of her eyelids. The familiar, warm press of bodies on either side of her is nothing but further proof on the matter.

 _I need a bigger bed_ , she thinks as she twists onto her side, untangling her arms from where they are caught underneath someone’s head.  In the field it’s not so much an issue. Unless bound by awful weather to the confines of the tents they simply build a big nest of bedrolls and coats on the ground – and even then the tents can comfortably fit four when you’re wanting to lie side-by-side. Unless, of course, one of those four is Bull, but he doesn’t mind playing mattress to everyone else, so really his presence is negligible. Before all of _this_ she’d never dared think about her companions in her bed at Skyhold, no matter how much she might need them there. The risk to the _Herald of Andraste’s_ reputation was too much. She already risked much with her open bond with the _Evil Magister from Tevinter_. So at home she caught sleep between nightmares and spent too many nights simply meditating beneath a star filled sky or poking through the library for information that might help with whatever problem currently loomed largest in her mind.

But then everything had changed.

Val Royeux. Thom. Cullen. _DJ_.

She’ll continue on. She knows herself too well. She’ll draw herself up and go back to being the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste because that is who she is now. She doesn’t know how to be anyone else. But she’ll keep _this_. She’ll keep the bed full of warm bodies and the comforting feeling of skin against skin.

The world has taken her. It has taken everything she was, is, or might have been. It’s even taken her child. To the fucking void with it, if she’ll let the world take this from her too.

If nothing else she’ll still have _them_.

Catheryn steadfastly refuses to acknowledge the memory of neatly organized tombstones that plays on the back of her eyelids. Instead she focuses on the bodies around her, on the gentle rise and fall of chests as she inhales slowly and exhales.

Dorian, for sure, is behind her. She’d know him by the way he has his arm slung around her waist, fingers fisted in her top, or by the way his always cold toes are pressed against her calves but it’s the spice of his cologne that gives him away. The body against her front is male but it isn’t Cullen or Thom. The form isn’t broad enough and the air is lacking both the scent of wood shavings or peppermint. He’s too tall to be Varric, and the dwarf usually prefers to be the big spoon anyway. That leaves Cole, who is – at best – shit at cuddling or… Catheryn lets her eyes flutter slowly open to find Solas watching her carefully, close enough that she can feel the warm puff of his breath against her face.

“Where…?” she can’t hide the panic that claws at her throat and makes her heart pound in her ears. Solas, bless him, needs no explanation.

“Dorian and I sent them away. They needed some time on their own,” he explains simply. “I imagine the Iron Bull will not be able to resist meddling and the three of them are probably drunk off of their collective asses by now.”

Catheryn blinks at him and then blinks again. One more time for good measure and… “Fuck.”

Solas smiles.

“There you are,” he murmurs and the words, heavy with mingled worry and relief, hit her hard. She can hear them echoing in her head in another voice, one deeper and rough with laughter from regaling her with the sexual exploits of their friends.

“Here I am,” she whispers, and the words fall heavy between them. They taste of sorrow this time, sorrow and exhaustion. There is no relief, no happiness at finding herself once again present in her own head. But she is back all the same.

Solas’ eyes, so blue in the light of the sun, have gone a pearlescent gray, shining like molten silver in the moonlight. “I did not think you would be back tonight,” he finally acknowledges. “I would have kept them away. This is not something that can be rushed, _falon_.”

“I know. I am not foolish enough to think that I can just shrug this off – that I can just _go on_. But what else can I do? Corypheus isn’t going to stop just because I’m heartsick and broken.” And she can’t help the bitterness that creeps into her words. This is her life. This is _who_ she is but she is just so _blighted_ tired.

“Not broken,” Solas is quick to growl. “Your will is the most indomitable thing I have ever been privileged to witness. This, Catheryn, _this_ does not have the strength to break you. It will _never_ have the strength to break you.”

She recoils from the vehemence in his voice, the utter – almost violent – surety that twists his face. Solas is not vocal or loud in his belief in their success. He is not Cassandra or Thom, believing their caused blessed. Nor is he Sera, who is hoping to pull some stitches across the gaping wound in the world, slap a band aid on it and go back to life as normal. If anything he is closest to Varric, who believes and who hopes but who also knows that heroics and miracles do not come free of charge. They are realists and it comforts her, more than she would like to admit, to know that she’s not alone in that. So it is odd to hear such conviction from him.

She wishes that she had his certainty.

“I just wanted there to be something left – something of _me_ – when all of this is over,” she admits after a moment. “Not the Inquisitor, not the Herald, not whatever history will make me out to be but… me. Just plain Catheryn Trevelyan.” She huffs and shakes her head against the pillow. “Silly, I suppose.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”

“It fucking feels like it,” she shuts her eyes and inhales. “I would have never set out to get pregnant – not with the whole world going to shit – but once it happened I was relieved. DJ… it’s not just that she would have been a piece of me but she was a piece of Him as well. There was going to be living, breathing proof somewhere down the line that I wasn’t just a … figurehead. That in spite of everything I was a living, breathing woman who lived and loved and… and now I won’t have that. I won’t ever have that.”

Solas snorts and it’s such an undignified sound that her eyes fly open. “You will,” he assures. “Things will not always be thusly.”

“No, but I am not so foolish to think that I will be alive to see it.” It is something she has always known, something that came to her the first time she stood before the Breach and raised her hand to its rift. This will claim her. Somehow, someway she is able to fight it, to _fix_ it but she has never been under any illusion that she will escape doing so with her life.

Catheryn sighs and runs her fingers over the soft skin of Dorian’s arm, taking comfort from the touch. He stirs behind her but doesn’t wake, muttering – swearing, if she knows him even a little - in Tevene against the nape of her neck as he curls closer. Caught by the absurd normality of the gesture she nearly laughs and Solas must see it for he softly drags a finger down the length of her jaw, curling it until it nudges at the unshakable upward twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“See? Not broken,” Solas murmurs. “Have more faith in yourself, _fenor_. You have become something greater than I could have ever expected. You will endure this and come out all the stronger.”

“You think?” It’s bitter and biting. She doesn’t mean it to be but she can’t stop it.

Solas simply smiles. “Yes, I do.”

And she doesn’t believe him but maybe she doesn’t need to. Maybe his belief is enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick shout out to everyone who has offered up Kudos or comments on the last couple of chapters - THANK YOU! My personal life has been... hectic... this last week or so and my responding to comments has suffered for it. Never doubt that I see them and love them!
> 
> Elven Translations:  
>  _falon:_ friend, literally a true friend - one who is a guiding force in your life  
>  _Dar'atisha, ma’iovru_ : Go in peace, my baby bear/bear cub  
>  _Sule tael tasalal:_ Until we meet again  
>  _fenor:_ precious, similar to the English endearment dear or beloved


	21. A Change in the Wind

Official pardon or no, he’s a miserable bastard and completely undeserving of her so he’s not surprised in the slightest when Solas and Dorian all but throw him from Catheryn’s rooms. He _is_ surprised that it took them this fucking long.

 More so, he is stunned to watch them do the same thing to Cullen.

Well, almost the same thing.

For him it had been a sharp and unyielding, “Get out,” from Solas followed by an immediate eye roll and dramatic sigh from Dorian.

“Don’t mind _Chuckles_ here,” the Tevinter had drawled. “His fashion sense is finally beginning to affect the rest of his brain.” When it becomes obvious that Dorian is only speaking out against Solas’ rudeness and not the message itself he’d opened his mouth to argue. He may be a miserable bastard but he isn’t as stupid as everyone seems to think he is and he knows damn well just how badly Catheryn has taken him _leaving_.

And he promised he wouldn't do it again. It's a promise he'll keep, even if it kills him.

For Cullen, though…

“I can’t leave her,” Cullen had growled from across the room, his face set in a look that has made demons tuck tail and run. “I _won’t_.”

“The potion she took is potent. She will not wake tonight, not even enough to dream and walk the Fade.” Solas had promised. “Please, the focus has been on Catheryn but this past week has been just as trying on you…”

“…And Thom,” Dorian had interjected.

“… and Thom. You need some time to yourselves. You will be no good to us, to _her_ , if you cannot take care of yourselves.”

The elf had a point.

That hadn’t stopped either one of them from arguing.

Not that they won. Clearly.

Which is how they end up standing in front of Cabot with _don’t fuck with me tonight_ snarls on their faces.

The bartender blinks once and takes a half step back. “Commander, Blackwall,” he greets with a wary tip of his head. “Your usuals?”

On any other night the fact that Cullen – who he has never seen drink anything more than half a glass of wine at dinner in the two years that he has known him - has a _usual_ would have been enough to knock the scowl off his face. Tonight though he just snarls, “Yes,” at the dwarf while Cullen orders, “Put it on my tab,” in a voice that is only slightly more civil.

Thom doesn’t think he's ever seen Cabot move so fast in his life.

“Leave the bottle,” he scowls as Cabot pours his customary whiskey.

Bottle in one hand and glass tumbler in the other he wordlessly follows the Commander and his Ferelden Stout through the evening crowds and up the stairs. It’s quieter than usual, an oppressive miasma hanging over the patrons in a way that reminds him of the relentless darkness and weary downpour that hovered over Crestwood like a plague until Catheryn had closed the rift beneath the lake. Even the Chargers are quiet over in their corner, a pair of dice sitting unused on the table between them as they stare at their drinks.

Thom drains his first drink in a single toss of his hand and is pouring a second before he even slides into the seat opposite of Cullen. He’s not sure why they’re here together. Maker’s fucking balls, he’s not sure why he’d _asked_ Cullen to accompany him. The last two times they’ve been alone together he’s ended up, albeit deservedly, on the wrong end of Cullen’s fist. He certainly hadn’t expected the other man to accept.

But here they are.

Maybe it’s because they’re the only ones in Skyhold that even remotely understand what the other is feeling. Maybe it’s because after days spent standing, sitting, and lying next to more than one person the idea of being well and truly alone in the face of their grief is crushingly abhorrent.  Maybe it’s that they were once friends, comrades, and brothers-in-arms and despite everything those bonds aren’t as dead as they think they are.

Or maybe, just maybe, Cullen wants to punch him again.

At this point, Thom’s not really sure he fucking cares.

“You love her.” It’s not a question, but it is, and he doesn’t dare say it until after he’s knocked back his second glass.

Cullen freezes, momentarily caught off guard with his tankard held to his lips, but then he nods and looks away. “I… yes. I do.”

“And you’ve always loved her.” Also not a question. In fact, he’s pretty sure he knew how Cullen felt about Catheryn before the Commander had figured it out.  He’d known the first moment he laid eyes on them, standing together and talking on the training grounds at Haven. To his knowledge, Cullen hadn’t figured it out – or at least hadn’t admitted it to himself - until Haven came crashing down around them. Thom had watched it happen, there in the chantry, had seen it on the other man’s face when he realized that Catheryn expected to die.

“Always would be a bit… I mean…Yes,” he admits. “I suppose I have.” Cullen sighs and stares down into his tankard like the Maker’s set up fucking camp there. “I didn’t see her when they brought her out of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I was too busy fortifying Haven and trying to keep the demons from killing everyone. I think I might have seen her hair and the top of her head as they brought her in but it was days before I actually saw her. Even then…” he takes a deep drink and lets out a shaky breath. “I felt her before I ever saw her. I could feel her on my skin, creeping up the mountain like fog across the surface of a lake. That amount of magic? Surrounded as I was by demons? Maker’s breath, I was terrified. She struck a Terror off my back with a bolt of lightning and then I turned and saw her, just out of the corner of my eye…” He laughs and despite the look on his face the sound is soft and… stunned, like he still can’t believe it. “I thought I had been struck by lightning too.”

Thom catches himself nodding. He’s familiar with that sensation. He’d almost taken an arrow to the chest because of it. He tips another finger of whiskey into his mouth and swallows.

“You love her too.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it. He just grunts and pours another shot. “Yes.” And then, because it seems appropriate after Cullen’s response, “I heard her before I saw her, that first time. I’m there trying to give last minute lessons on how to hold a fucking shield so you don’t get an arrow – or worse – in your gut and her voice just _hits_ me. _‘Warden Blackwall!’,_ ” he mimics. “I’d been Blackwall for almost four years at that point but I didn’t go around giving out my name. Just in case I ran into someone who had actually _known_ Blackwall. Just told them I was a Grey Warden. I about shit in my breeches hearing her yell it at me and then I turned around and…” he shakes his head. “I completely forgot about everything for a moment. Until some bastard shot an arrow at me. Nearly got my head cut off half a dozen times in the next five minutes because I was too busy staring at her to pay attention to what I was doing.” He takes another drink and Cullen laughs a little, a little sharper than before but still a sound of agreement.

“Didn’t realize I was in love with her until we were halfway to the Storm Coast to recruit the Chargers. Too late to tuck tail and run then,” he laughs hollowly and this time he doesn’t bother to pour the whiskey into the cup. He just takes a swig straight from the bottle. “Not that that stopped me later. I always knew she’d end up with you,” he adds, “You’re the better man.”

“You say that like I’m some sort of _saint_ ,” Cullen snarls and Thom stares as the Commander reaches across the table and yanks the whiskey out of his hand, pouring a considerable amount of it into his empty tankard. “Like I’m _good_.”

Thom shivers as the bottle is thrust back into his hands. “You are,” he says without thinking. “You’re the best man I know.”

Cullen just laughs. It’s harsh and grating and, Maker help him, Thom’s felt better with a foot of steel buried in his lungs. “You know _nothing_ about me,” the Commander spits, handsome features twisting into something cold and terrifying. “I was the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall.”

“Yes.”

He knows. He remembers hearing it announced at the Winter Palace. Right after he got blindsided with Blackwall’s _Silver Wings of Valor_.

Cullen laughs again.

“You don’t understand…” his shoulders shake and at first Thom thinks it’s with laughter but then he manages to get a good look at the Commander’s face around the tankard pressed to his lips. There are tears in the corners of his eyes.  “I am, directly or indirectly, by action or inaction, responsible for making more mages Tranquil than anyone else in Thedas.” The laugh this time is more of an angry punch, a broken expulsion of air. “I didn’t just watch mages or guard them, I made them into animals. I beat them, I starved them, I imprisoned them unjustly. I broke them. I stood by and let others abuse them and use them. I broke up lovers. I took their children. And the worst of it is that I did all of this and thought it _justice_ and _mercy_. I thought that I was _kind.”_ He punctuates the violent spit of words with a slam of his tankard.

“Maker…” Thom stares, the rest of his words dying on his tongue. He’d known, in the vague sort of way that everyone in Orlais had known – that Kirwall was  - _is_ – a blighted mess. He had known that the issues in their Circle had exploded and consumed the rest of southern Thedas, pitting mages against their former watchdogs. He had known, in the way one knows among Orlesian gossip, that the abuses against the mages there had – supposedly – been many. More than had been expected at any rate. But he hadn’t… he couldn’t possibly begin to reconcile the Commander of the Inquisition’s armies with the stories that he had heard, let alone the words coming out of the younger man’s mouth.

“So you see, _Thom_ , I am not _good_ ,” Cullen sighs. “I am simply trying to atone for my sins. Maker’s breath, I’ll never be clean of them but I’m _trying_  - trying to be a better man than I once was.”

“She makes it easier.”

Cullen looks at him then, a sad little smile pulling at the scar on his lip. “Yeah,” he agrees. “She does.”

More than that, she makes them want it. That’s a hard thing to do. A dangerous thing.

Without a word Thom pours them each another drink. They’re down three-quarters of the bottle now and that should bother him. It doesn’t though. He can’t bring himself to care.

“Andraste's tits, this is the saddest shit I’ve ever seen. And I’m from Kirkwall.”

“What are you doing here, Varric?” Cullen growls without looking up.

“Keeping you assholes from doing something stupid,” Bull’s voice answers dryly as he slings himself into a chair pulled over from a nearby table, massive forearms crossed over the back of the chair and resting on the table.

Varric snorts as he takes the seat next to Cullen and neatly plucks the tankard from the Commander’s hand. “Whiskey, Curly?” he asks disbelieving after taking a sniff. “Shit, I thought it was bad enough when Cabot told me he’d given you your usual. And you…” he levels a glare over the table at Thom. “What happened to your _two drinks and I’m done_ rule?”

“Broke it,” he snarls and manages to swallow what’s left in his cup before Bull takes it from him. There’s no getting it back now. Not unless he and Cullen rush the Qunari bastard at the same time.

“Bull’s right. You’re assholes.”

The look on Cullen’s face is eloquent enough for both of them but Thom can’t help himself. “No argument here,” he mutters. “Clearly. We’re both undeserving bastards.”

“And that’s you’re problem,” Bull drawls. “You think you have to _deserve_ something. Nobody _deserves_ love. You think I deserve someone like Dorian? If we want to air dirty laundry I can guarantee you that my list of shit is longer than both of yours combined. And that’s just the fuckin’ stuff that I _remember_. Feelings don’t pay attention to _good_  or _bad_ or…”

“… shit just happens,” Varric mutters.

“Exactly,” Bull nods in agreement. “So the two of you can stop it.”

Cullen looks as confused as Thom feels. “Stop _what_?”

“You really _are_ a couple of stupid bastards…” Bull mutters, while Varric rolls his eyes.

“This mopey, broody, ’we’re both undeserving so how else do we decide’ fight you’ve got going on over Kitten,” Varric explains slowly, like they’re five.

Cullen chokes on air. “We’re not… Maker’s fucking breath, we’re not fighting over Catheryn,” he stammers but Thom is silent because aren’t they?

“Aren’t you?” Bull pushes, echoing his thoughts. “You’re just avoiding doing it with swords because you,” he points to Thom, “aren’t sure you could take Cullen in a fight. Can’t blame you for that. He doesn’t look it but Cullen’s a mean motherfucker. And you,” he points to Cullen, “don’t want to hurt someone that the Boss loves. Especially right now.”

The string of curses that comes out of Cullen’s mouth is singularly impressive. Or would be under any other circumstances.

“You’re going about this all wrong,” the Qunari continues when the Commander finally falls silent and despite the fact that his eye is looking at both of them Thom feels, quite distinctly, that the bulk of Bull’s comments are directed at him. “Boss isn’t the sort of lady that will take being fought over well. And she’s scary. Quite a bit scarier than either of you. And if you,” he tips his head and now Thom fucking _knows_ that he’s the one being talked to. “If you court her and prod her and push until she’s forced to choose you’ll lose her. Instantly.”

“And not because she loves Cullen more,” Varric growls when Thom opens his mouth to snap back. “But because he’s never kept any secrets from her, not the way you have.”

“And if Cullen tries to shut you down and forbids her from seeing you she’ll most definitely feel betrayed.”

“Not to mention she’d probably light you both on fire,” Varric adds helpfully.

“I would never do that,” the Commander scowls and there’s something in his voice that makes all three men look at him.

“Huh,” Bull grunts after a moment. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

It’s easy to forget that they’re in the middle of a tavern – though, he’s not sure the second floor counts as part of the tavern proper despite the tables everywhere. Sera’s got her rooms on the corner and if he listens hard enough he can hear her high pitched drunken snore creeping out from underneath the door. The subdued air that he’d noticed when they’d first come in has only grown heavier as the evening has past until there’s nothing but the faint buzz of halfhearted conversation from below to keep the tavern from being utterly silent. Maryden isn’t even singing. It’s a sure sign that things have gone to shit when you start missing the latest rendition of _Sera Never Was_.

“So what do you propose we do?” he bites out gruffly, because he can’t see any options other than _roll over and die_ – and that’s not an option he’s willing to take. Not anymore.  

 “Well…” Bull scratches at his chin and stares at them for a moment before he finishes with, “…did you ever think of sharing?”

 This time it’s Thom that chokes.

“ _What_?!?” he sputters. “That’s… that’s… she is the fucking _Herald of Andraste_ and the Inquisitor and…”

“… and what?” Bull asks with a shrug. “That’s what we call her. That’s what we’ve made her into because that’s what we need. That’s not who she _is_. You’re both in love with her, she’s in love with both of you, and you’re all consenting adults. I don’t see what the fuckin’ problem is.”

“You don’t see…” Thom forces himself to take a deep breath. And then another. And then a third for good measure before he opens his mouth to tell Bull exactly how sharing the most important woman in Thedas is the very epitome of a fucking bad plan. “How would that even work?” he asks instead and can’t believe that those words are coming out of his mouth. “What would we do… switch days?”

Varric laughs. “If that’s what you want to do, Hero,” he chortles until his face turns red. “Not how I’d do it but if that’s what floats your boats…”

“Do I really need to explain it to you?” Bull asks with a raised brow. “I was under the impression that you’d once served in the _Orlesian Army_.” He says the last two words like they’re the answer to everything – and maybe they are.

“Are you suggesting…” Thom has to pause and clear his throat because he’s suddenly talking like someone has kicked him in the balls. Feels a bit that way too. “You can’t seriously expect…” Bull just stares at him expectantly. So does Varric. So Thom rounds on Cullen – moral, upright, Cullen, the man who can hardly flirt without turning a dozen shades of pink – in the hopes of finding an angry faced, blushing ally. Instead, he finds himself looking at the closest to a blank face that Cullen – who couldn’t play the Great Game if he wanted to – has ever managed, his expression carefully neutral and not a trace of color on his cheeks.

Something hits Thom in the gut.

“You’ve thought about it,” he whispers, because what other reason could there be for that look?

 Cullen doesn’t even protest, he simply nods. “Yes,” he adds, just in case, and his calm doesn’t break but there is a faint rush of pink creeping along his cheekbones. The younger man clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “Yes, I have.”

The gold of the Commander’s eyes is hypnotic – bubbling and shining like molten metal. He can’t look away, trapped beneath the fire of that gaze as surely as a mouse beneath a lion’s paw. There’s something in his chest, something warm but squeezing that makes it impossible to breathe, impossible to think. So he does the only thing he can do. He takes the cup that Bull offers him and downs the bare swallow of whiskey in a single, shaking movement.

“Well, shit,” he murmurs. “So what now?”

 

* * *

 

Varric  watches the two men leave, dark hair and light hair gleaming in the candlelight as they stumble up the stairs that lead towards the battlements. They’re both tipsy, but not so drunk that they’re in danger of accidentally pitching themselves over Skyhold’s walls so he lets them go. It’s probably a good state for them to be in, all things considered.

“Well,” he sighs as he slumps into his chair, “that went better than expected.” Bull gives a knowing grunt and simply holds out his palm. Varric stares at it for a moment before he sighs. Reaching down, he unhooks a small purse from his belt and slaps it into the gray-skinned hand with enough force to make its contents jingle. “Fucking Ben Hassarath,” he grumbles good naturedly.

Bull shrugs. “Not my fault you keep making bets with me,” he points out, tipping the coins into his hand to double check. Varric shrugs and takes a swig from the whiskey he’d confiscated from Thom. It’s the good stuff. Be a shame to let it go to waste. “Here.” Bull drops a couple sovereigns on the scarred tabletop.

“What’s this for?”

“Because Cullen had been the one that’d already thought about it,” Bull tells him. “I’d have put money on Thom.”

Yeah, that’d surprised him too. Who’d have thought Curly had it in him?

“You realize that wasn’t an actual bet, right?” Varric verifies as he scoops the coins into his hand anyway and deposits them in his personal purse.

Bull grunts again. “It was in my head.”

They’re quite for a moment, both of them staring at the stairs. “If Kitten ever gets wind of this she’ll roast us both,” he finally mutters. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Bull grunts. “The Ben Hassarath teach that if you’re trying to get something from someone you give them what they want but if you care about someone – really care – you give them what they need, regardless of what that is.” His pale eye flickers down to Varric, his mouth set in a thin line. “If those assholes don’t get their act together and give the Boss what she needs than I will.”

“I… you’ll _what_?” Varric chokes. “What about Dorian?”

The Qunari shrugs. “If there’s one person in the whole of Thedas that Dorian would share with it’d be Catheryn.”

Varric blinks. “But Dorian’s gay.”

“Just cause he wouldn’t want to stick his dick in her doesn’t mean he wouldn’t let me. He'd probably want to watch,” the Iron Bull winks, which is slightly ridiculous looking when you only have one eye. “Dorian’s a voyeuristic little shit. And Catheryn’s hot.”

“I didn’t need to know what.” A comment like that definitely warrants another drink so Varric takes one. Yup, definitely the good stuff. Cabot’s been holding out on him. 

“Besides, you can’t say you haven’t ever thought about those pink lips wrapped around your…”

“Nope!” Varric announces a little too loudly. “I am not having this conversation with you.”

“Suit yourself,” Bull replies with a roll of his shoulders. “Besides, it’s not about the sex. Not really.”

“Yeah,” Varric sighs. “I know.” That’s the problem. Sex is so much easier. Relationships are just messy. His own life is living proof of that – or of the latter, at least.

They sit in quiet for a least quarter of an hour before Varric asks, “So how long do you think it will take them? After all, the world is ending.”

The Iron Bull just laughs. “Even I can’t tell you that. Not without seeing them interact for a bit. Ask me again in a week.”

And Varric does.

* * *

**End Part One**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please settle in for an extraordinary long (but necessary) author's note:
> 
> 1)No. This is not "THE END". When the idea for this story first popped into my head I thought "Oh, cool. A quick little something to work on while I take a break from the [inevitable] massiveness of my original works." I thought I'd be in and out in 5-10 chapters. Tops. And then I started writing. And writing. And writing. And it became quite clear that I wasn't going to make it in 10 chapters and that I certainly wasn't going to make in 50,000 words. It made me stop and evaluate not only _how_ I wanted to tell this story but _how much_. I started with a brief outline of major events that I wanted to hit - some of them in game and some of them not - and realized quite quickly that if I told it as one continuous story I was looking at, quite easily, a word count of over 500k.  
>  And there entered a problem.  
> I wanted to tell this story. I really, really did but I know myself. I know that despite the fact that I inevitably write larger works I also get bogged down. I get stuck in the details - all the little thoughts and emotions that make up the characters and their journey. So how could I tell this story without that happening? The answer, of course, was to cut out some of the emotions. Some of the details. The conversations and moments that happen between the larger moments. Instead of telling the _whole_ story I am instead presenting you with "slices" of it. Some of those slices will be more plot-y. Some won't. Some will be heavy on the feelings. Some won't. But it, hopefully, will allow me to give this story to you without us getting lost in the in-between moments (as lovely or beautifully angsty as those might be). As of this moment I have 17 planned chronological slices - at least two, maybe three, of them will be "longer" like this first one but many will be just a handful of chapters. I also have a few outtakes that I want to share - one shots haven't fit in with any of the related slices as well as a few multi-chapter pieces that follow the POV of one of the characters to give a more in depth look at their thoughts/feelings over a larger expanse of time.
> 
> 2) In case it were not made obvious by this chapter we are definitely headed into polyamory territory and later fics will have explicit threesomes. If that is not your cup of tea... I understand and thank you for sticking with me this far!
> 
> 3)Finally... **Thank you** so much for every single comment and kudo. I have loved every one. This started out as just a "But what if..." inspiration and has become something very personal for me. During the initial writing of this fic I had two miscarriages (5 and 8 weeks respectively). Nothing "traumatic" - and really nothing unexpected given my past history - but when you're very, very much wanting and hoping for a baby they still suck. I have also had some family drama blow into existence and I find myself the universally elected (and used) neutral ground of the situation - which is just exhausting. Writing this fic has very much become that escape for me, that deep breath before the plunge, the carrot dangled at the end of the rough days. So thank you for experiencing this with me. Getting to share it with you has very much been a bright spot in my day.  
>  (And, on a happier note, during the posting of this fic I did actually get a positive pregnancy test. I'm now at 9 weeks and everything is looking fantastic - and the persistent nausea and dizziness are reassuring, if annoying - so fingers crossed that my husband and I will get to welcome our newest bundle mid-May of next year!)
> 
> I'm going to take a week off from posting (my birthday is this week and my husband _may_ have further indulged my Dragon Age love by getting me Origins -which I've never played before - as a gift... so I may be a little, um, busy) but I will start posting the next "slice" of this story on **Monday, October 17th**. Subscribe to the series or keep a look out for a fic entitled _"Don't Stop Beating"_. Updates will be once per week.


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